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A    NOVEL 


BY 


ROBERT    H ICHENS 


FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

pubUs;^fr0 


Copyright,  1902 

by 
R.  S.  HICHENS 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  in  May,  1903 


To 

A.  E.  H. 


AUTHOR'S   NOTE 


'TT^HE  Author  wishes  to  acknowl- 
edge  his  indebtedness  to  Dr. 
Henri  Guimbail,  of  Ivry-sur-Seine 
for  the  account  given  of  the  proceed- 
ings in  a  certain  house  in  Paris. 


FELIX 

THREE  YEARS  IN  A  LIFE 

CHAPTER    I 

WHEN  Felix  had  passed  his  eighteenth  birthday  he  went 
to  France  to  finish  his  education.  He  was  a  very  agree- 
able, gentlemanly  boy,  apparently  free  from  any  strong  vices. 
He  was  fairly  good  at  games  and  rode  well.  As  a  rule  his 
manners  were  lively.  He  had  many  Irish  relations.  Most  of 
them  he  had  never  seen,  nor  had  he  ever  set  foot  in  Ireland. 
But  his  agility  of  mind  and  fluency  of  speech,  his  rapid  sym- 
pathies and  fluctuations  of  mood,  were  un-English.  Far  back 
in  the  family,  on  his  mother's  side,  there  was  a  strain  of 
Spanish  blood. 

Possibly  from  some  Spanish  ancestor  Felix  inherited  his 
large  and  piercing  dark  eyes.  He  was  tolerably  handsome, 
and  very  attractive  in  appearance.  His  figure  was  tall  and 
slim.  By  the  time  he  was  eighteen  he  was  over  five  feet 
eleven  in  height.  He  had  a  well-shaped  head,  a  neck  rather 
long  than  short,  and  small,  but  decided  features,  neither 
aquiline  nor  retrousse.  People  always  remarked  that  he  had  a 
*  very  mobile  face.'  If  they  disliked  him  they  occasionally 
expressed  themselves  rather  differently,  and  declared  that, 
when  he  was  talking,  he  grimaced.  Certainly  he  often  be- 
came excited  in  conversation,  and  sometimes  fell  into  exag- 
geration both  of  speech  and  manner.  But  exaggeration  was 
really  natural  to  him,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  hold  his 
features  still  in  a  petrified  expression  when  he  was  pouring 
out  what  was  in  his  mind  volcanically.  His  hair  was  excep- 
tionally thick,  smooth,  and  dark  brown.  He  was  imitative 
as  a  child,  and  much  given  to  the  worship  of  people  in  whom 
he  noticed  any  peculiarity.  A  maiden  lady  with  a  limp,  who 
lived  near  his  home,  received  the  compliment  of  an  answer- 
ing limp  from  Felix,  whose  legs,  unlike  hers,  were  perfectly 

A 


2  FELIX 

straight  and  of  precisely  the  same  length.  A  gentleman, 
dowered  with  more  than  a  touch  of  St.  Vitus's  dance,  found 
many  of  his  sudden  starts  and  unearthly  twitchings  most  ac- 
curately reproduced  by  the  attentive  little  boy,  who  watched 
and  followed  him  with  a  perseverance  that  was  born  of  un- 
divided admiration.  Afflicted  persons  such  as  these  two 
moved  romantically  through  the  imagination  of  Felix.  Their 
bodily  infirmities  seemed  to  him  emanations  from  highly 
original  minds,  manifestations  of  temperaments  both  daring 
and  unique.  He  was  disappointed  in  his  parents  and  only 
sister,  who  declined  to  show  any  originality  of  a  similar  kinci. 
At  the  age  of  eight  he  fell  madly  in  love  with  a  little  girl. 
Her  only  attraction  was  a  tremendous  squint.  Just  when 
they  were  about  to  become  engaged,  her  mother  summoned 
an  oculist,  who,  by  a  slight  operation,  corrected  the  squint. 
He  also,  by  the  same  operation,  killed  Felix's  passion,  and 
the  affair  w-as  promptly  broken  off. 

Felix's  father,  Mr.  Wilding  of  Hill  House,  Churston  Waters, 
Kent,  was  a  country  squire.  He  died  when  his  son  was 
barely  sixteen.  He  was  a  clever  man,  full  of  humour,  with  a 
quick  temper,  a  kind  heart,  and  a  great  love  of  the  country 
and  of  simple  people,  though  he  was  by  no  means  simple 
himself.  His  intellect  was  excellent,  and  his  mind  decidedly 
complicated.  But  he  was  a  lazy  man,  and  fond  of  the  peace- 
ful routine  of  country  life.  Apart  from  sport,  his  greatest  pas- 
sion was  music.  This  led  him  sometimes  to  London  to  hear 
some  great  artist.  But  he  never  stayed  more  than  one  night 
in  town,  and  invariably  thanked  God  lustily  for  being  back 
again  in  the  country.  His  intellect,  good  as  it  was,  was  not 
too  good  to  believe  in  a  God.  For  years  he  read  the  lessons 
admirably  in  the  parish  church,  and  taught  the  choir  to  sing 
with  sincerity  of  expression  and  a  correct  appreciation  of 
time.  If,  however,  they  took  a  chant  too  fast  or  a  hymn  too 
slow,  he  lost  his  temper  in  the  face  of  the  congregation,  and 
had  been  known  to  make  no  uncertain  sound  upon  the  wood 
of  his  pew  with  his  clenched  fist.  Then  the  alarmed  organ- 
ist heeded,  and  the  singers,  fixing  round  eyes  upon  the  musi- 
cal squire,  hurried  or  slackened,  following  the  domination  of 
his  outstretched  arm. 

He  died  of  influenza  and  pneumonia,  and  left  enough 
money  to  bring  in  two  thousand  five  hundred  a  year.  By 
his  will  this  sum  was  divided  equally  between  his  wife  and 
his  two  children.  But  Mrs.  Wilding  had  entire  control  over 
it  till  the  children  came  of  aa^e. 


FELIX  3 

The  death  of  his  father  startled  Felix  painfully.  He  had 
never  before  known  the  crude  definiteness  of  personal  sor- 
row. Hitherto  his  griefs  had  been  vague  and  his  beliefs 
childish.  By  the  open  grave  of  his  father  he  wondered,  for 
the  first  time,  what  followed  earthly  life,  and  was  by  no  means 
certain  that  descriptive  hymns  were  true.  The  choir  sang  at 
the  funeral.  They  were  lost  without  their  teacher.  In  their 
emotion  they  forgot  his  directions.  They  dragged  the 
funeral  hymn.  Even  while  his  tears  were  falling,  Felix,  who 
inherited  the  dead  man's  love  for,  and  understanding  of 
music,  noticed  this,  and  it  added  enormously  to  his  misery. 
More  even  than  the  sight  of  the  coffin  it  made  him  realize 
that  his  father  was  gone,  or  was  no  more.  The  hymn  was 
long,  and  the  choir  sang  slower  and  slower,  obedient  to  the 
impulse  of  regret.  Felix  clenched  his  hand,  and  longed  to 
beat  the  right  time  as  his  father  used  to  beat  it  on  the  pew. 
He  felt  as  if  he  owed  it  to  his  father  to  do  this.  But  Mrs. 
Wilding  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  held  it.  His  sister,  who 
was  eighteen,  and  by  far  the  best  soprano  in  the  choir, 
sobbed  in  her  corner.  Felix  wished  that  she  would  sing,  and 
for  a  moment  felt  quite  cruel  to  her.  But  at  last  it  war  all 
over.     Even  a  wrongly  rendered  hymn  is  not  everlasting. 

Mrs.  Wilding  and  her  children  stayed  on  at  Churston 
Waters  and  faced  their  new  life. 

Mrs.  Wilding  faced  it  bravely.  She  was  a  very  quiet  woman, 
one  of  those  women  whose  beliefs  are  absolutely  sure  and 
whose  lives  are  entirely  sincere.  Nothing  could  ever  make  her 
deviate  from  the  truth  as  she  knew  it.  She  had  told  falsehoods 
occasionally  by  mistake.  She  was  incapable  of  telling  a  lie 
purposely.  Dishonesty  was  so  unnatural  to  her  that  she  could 
hardly  understand  it.  She  read  about  it  sometimes  in  the 
newspapers  as  she  read  wild  romances,  and  with  scarcely  more 
belief  in  it  than  in  them.  No  one  could  be  more  easily 
cheated.  She  had  confidence  in  most  people,  judging  them  by 
herself,  but  she  was  not  deeply  attached  to  many  people.  Her 
family  were  so  much  to  her  that  the  world  was  very  little. 
Such  a  woman  does  not  marry  a  man  without  loving  him  sin- 
cerely, and  Mrs.  Wilding  had  adored  her  husband.  She  was 
essentially  a  simple  woman,  and  loved  the  country.  The  noise 
and  bustle,  the  gaieties,  intrigues,  scandals,  and  excitments  of 
a  great  city  would  have  been  both  wearisome  and  alarming  to 
her.  Now  and  then,  during  her  husband's  lifetime,  she  went 
up  with  him  to  attend  a  Saturday  '  Pop,'  or  to  see  an  exhibition 
of   pictures.     Before  these  events  she  did  a  little  shopping, 


4  FELIX 

bought  a  new  hat  or  some  furs — always  with  her  husband's 
commanding  assistance — or  went  to  Hanover  Square  to  be 
looked  at  by  the  dentist.  She  also  took  her  children,  trem- 
bling, to  this  functionary,  and  once  or  twice  to  a  doctor.  But 
it  was  seldom  indeed  that  she  passed  a  night  in  town.  She  had 
no  love,  no  hatred  either,  of  the  theatre,  but  it  was  always  un- 
pleasant, and  even  distressing,  to  her  to  be  in  a  crowd.  Her 
home  was  everything  to  her,  and  there  she  worked  really  hard, 
taking  infinite  pains  to  make  it  ideal  for  the  three  beings 
whom  she  loved  more  than,  perhaps,  they  always  fully  realised. 
She  was  a  very  nervous  woman,  was  afraid  of  burglars  when 
her  husband  was  away  for  the  night,  could  seldom  be  induced 
to  get  into  a  boat,  and  perpetually  expected  railway  accidents 
when  she  was  travelling  in  the  train. 

Extremely  handsome  in  middle  age,  she  had  been  quite  a 
beauty  in  her  youth.  Very  tall  and  straight,  her  figure  had 
never  lost  its  shapeliness,  but  remained  almost  as  shm  as  a 
girl's  when  she  was  no  longer  young.  Her  features  were 
noble,  small,  and  delicately  aristocratic.  Her  hair  became 
grey  when  she  was  thirty-five.  She  had  not  married  till  she 
was  thirty,  and  when  Felix  went  to  France  she  was  over  fifty. 
Her  eyes,  like  his,  were  large  and  dark,  but  they  entirely 
lacked  the  eager,  piercing  quality  so  noticeable  in  his  and  were 
soft  and  very  gentle  in  expression.  Her  manner  was  usually 
calm  and  quietly  dignified.  She  had  all  her  life  been  entirely 
free  from  self-consciousness  and  shyness.  She  was  not  a 
talkative  woman,  but  she  did  not  mind  that,  for  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  live  with  great  talkers.  Mr.  Wilding  was  a  man  who 
demanded  a  good  listener.  Felix  was  a  tremendous  chatter- 
box ;  and  Margot,  his  sister,  had  generally  several  things  she 
wanted  to  say  when  her  brother  allowed  her  to  be  heard.  So 
Mrs.  Wilding  had  found  her  quiet  habit  by  no  means  unwel- 
come to  those  about  her.  They  relied  unsparingly  upon  her 
sweet  and  untiring  attention.  Had  she  been  obviously  unin- 
terested in  their  remarks  on  any  subject,  the  shock  to  them 
would  have  been  as  if  the  heavens  had  fallen.  Probably 
neither  of  her  children  had  any  notion  how  implicitly  they 
confided  in  their  mother's  devotion  to  them.  Man  seldom 
thinks  about  the  firmness  of  the  earth  on  which  he  walks.  _ 

Margot  Wilding  was  not  at  all  like  Felix.  She  was  a  genial, 
countrified  girl,  plu^np,  brown-eyed,  and  with  a  sweet  voice. 
By  nature  lazy,  like  her  father,  she  had  occasionally  sudden 
spurts  of  energy.  She  was  very  intelligent,  but  had  no  taste 
for  acquiring  knowledge.     Although  she  had  enough  brains  to 


FELIX  5 

understand  the  writings  of  clever  men,  she  usually  read  trash. 
She  looked  robust,  having  a  tall,  well-developed  figure,  bright 
eyes,  and  abundant  hair,  but  she  was  not  very  strong,  and 
sometimes  had  headaches,  and  those  fits  of  apparently  unrea- 
sonable depression  that  come  from  a  weak  nervous  system. 
She  was  very  sensitive,  had  little  will  but  some  obstinacy,  and 
the  warmest  heart  in  the  world.  Her  chief  talent  was  her 
music.  Her  voice  was  beautiful  in  quality,  and  had  been  care- 
fully trained  by  her  father  before  he  died.  Afterwards  she 
occasionally  had  lessons,  and  practised  by  fits  and  starts. 
She  could  easily  have  sung  twice  as  well  as  she  did,  but  for  an 
amateur  she  sang  remarkably.  Creative  talent  of  any  kind 
she  entirely  lacked.  She  adored  her  brother,  who  ordered  her 
about  sometimes,  and  was  often  irritated  by  her  lack  of  per- 
severance, but  who  would  have  felt  lost  without  her. 

Long  before  his  death  Mr.  Wilding  made  his  wife  promise 
that  if  he  died  before  she  did,  she  would  not  wear  widow's 
weeds  for  him.  He  said  they  made  the  nicest  and  most  mod- 
est women  look  like  adventuresses.  Mrs.  Wilding  could 
hardly  have  looked  like  an  adventuress  in  any  costume,  but 
she  kept  her  promise.  It  cost  her  a  great  deal  to  keep  it. 
Indeed,  although  she  never  said  a  word  to  anybody  about  it, 
only  after  one  of  the  hardest  mental  struggles  of  her  life  did 
she  give  her  orders  for  the  dress  and  bonnet  she  wore  at  her 
husband's  funeral.  There  was  no  crape  upon  them.  No 
widow's  cap  covered  her  grey  hair  on  that  terrible  evening 
when,  in  the  house  that  seemed  now  so  utterly  desolate,  she 
took  her  place  at  the  dinner-table  with  her  two  children  after 
her  husband's  body  had  been  lowered  into  the  grave.  It 
would  have  helped  her  to  endure  her  loss  if  she  might  have 
commemorated  it  as  other  women  commemorate  their  losses. 
She  supposed  that  she  was  very  silly  to  feel  this,  but  she  did 
feel  it  acutely.  That  night,  in  her  lonely  bedroom,  she  cried 
and  prayed,  and  wondered  whether  she  could  go  on  living  with- 
out her  husband.  For  the  moment  even  her  children  were  like 
shadows  to  her.  But  she  never  let  them  know  it,  and  after- 
wards they  became  more  to  her  than  they  had  been  during  her 
husband's  lifetime.  For  she  determined,  with  the  beautiful 
strength  of  a  simple,  good  woman,  to  be  doubly  valuable  to 
them  now  ;  to  blend,  if  she  could,  a  father's  influence  with  a 
mother's. 

She  wondered  how  she  could  accomplish  this  ;  and  often, 
when  she  was  alone,  tried  to  imagine  what  a  good  father  was 
exactly  to  his  children,  what  he  supplied  them  with   that  a 


6  FELIX 

mother  could  not  give.  But  she  was  not  very  imaginative,  and 
had  to  abandon  this  pathetic  attempt  to  think  herself  into  a 
man's  nature.  Finally  she  resolved  merely  to  be  very  broad- 
minded,  especially  in  regard  to  Felix.  Men's  lives  were  not, 
and  could  not  be,  so  sheltered  as  women's, she  said  to  herself. 
Women  need  not,  and  ought  not  to  know  of  many  things  which 
exist  in  life.  Men  must  know  of  them  and  face  them,  as  the 
soldier  faces  the  enemy.  She  believed  it  to  be  her  duty,  now 
that  her  husband  was  dead,  to  be  before  her  son  in  knowledge, 
as  ills  father  would  have  been,  so  that,  if  he  came  to  her  in  a 
man's  difficulty,  as  he  would  have  gone  to  his  father,  she  might 
be  able  to  help  him.  Here,  however,  she  found  herself  per- 
plexed. It  was  manifestly  impossible  for  her  to  gain  by  per- 
sonal experience  the  knowledge  that  it  was  so  desirable  for  her 
to  have.  She  had  to  go  to  books  for  it.  This  she  did.  From 
the  time  when  Felix  was  sixteen  to  the  time  when  he  went  to 
France,  Mrs.  Wilding  read  a  most  varied  selection  of  treatises 
and  novels  bearing  on  the  relations  between  fathers  and  sons. 
She  read  them  secretly.  They  were  not  allowed  to  lie  about 
the  house.  She  did  not  always  understand  them.  Sometimes 
they  shocked  her.  But  when  this  occurred,  she  was  very  strict 
with  herself,  saying  to  herself  that  they  would  certainly  not 
have  shocked  a  father  reading  them.  Finally  she  hoped  that 
she  was  sufficiently  informed  to  give  a  manly  helping  hand  to 
her  boy  if  he  should  ever  ask  her  for  it. 

Churston  Waters  was  a  small  village  in  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  parts  of  Kent.  The  country  it  stood  in  was  genuine 
country,  not  yet  spoilt  by  the  mistaken  ardours  of  man  for 
setting  God's  work  in  order.  There  was  nothing  wild  or  pas- 
sionate about  it.  It  was  sweet  and  serene,  and  looked  safe 
and  cosy.  Bicyclists  complained  that  it  was  hilly.  Walkers 
found  it  quietly  varied  and  full  of  charming  nooks,  like  a 
pretty,  old-fashioned  house.  The  land  was  rich.  Woods 
abounded.  The  grass  grew  thickly  in  the  rolling  meadows, 
and  the  dales  in  spring  were  crowded  with  wild  flowers.  Cow- 
slips streamed  over  the  sunny  banks.  The  hedgerows  shel- 
tered modest  multitudes  of  violets,  and  even  the  depredations 
of  greedy  school-children  scarcely  seemed  to  lesson  the  yellow 
squadrons  of  the  daffodils. 

Hill  House  stood,  rightly,  on  the  top  of  a  steep  hill  that  lay 
between  high  and  sloping  banks.  It  was  close  to  a  yellow 
church  of  modern  date,  and  was  an  unpretentious  building, 
partly  old  and  partly  new.  Mr.  Wilding  had  added  to  it 
considerably.     The  drawing-room,  dining-room,  and  three  or 


FELIX  7 

four  of  the  bedrooms  dated  from  1800,  and  had  low  ceilings 
and  uneven  floors.  The  windows  of  these  rooms  were  lat- 
ticed, and  the  walls  of  this  part  of  the  house  were  densely 
covered  with  ivy  and,  here  and  there,  with  wild  roses,  clematis 
and  pirus  japonica.  There  was  no  drive  to  the  house,  which 
fronted  the  highroad,  standing  at  an  angle,  and  opposite  to  a 
second  road  that  wound,  between  tangled  hedges,  to  a  farm. 
Behind  the  house,  and  to  the  left  of  it,  was  a  large,  informal 
garden  containing  many  noble  old  trees  and  a  famous  collec- 
tion of  roses.  A  great  yew  hedge  sheltered  it  from  the  eyes  of 
people  looking  up  to  it  from  the  hill  road.  Beyond  the  garden 
the  fields  sloped  gently  to  a  narrow  dell,  through  which  a  very 
small  and  surreptitious  stream  ran  lethargically,  and  without 
making  any  indecent  noise.  On  the  right  of  the  house  was  a 
walled  yard,  containing  dog-kennels,  a  pond,  and  stabling 
for  five  horses. 

The  church  was  so  near  that  the  bells  seemed  to  ring  in  the 
garden,  and  the  voices  of  the  choir  singing  could  sometimes 
be  heard  in  the  drawing-room.  Both  Margot  and  Felix  were 
disagreeably  affected  by  the  bells,  whose  chimes,  especially 
after  dark,  made  them  swim  in  a  limitless  sea  of  melancholy. 
They  dreaded  Thursday  nights,  when  the  village  bell-ringers 
assembled  to  practice  terrible  'bob-majors'  and  other  musi- 
cal combinations  provocative  of  despair.  Mrs.  Wilding,  on 
the  other  hand,  loved  the  bells,  and  indeed  everything  con- 
nected with  the  church.  When  she  was  upstairs  reading 
secretly  Turgenev's  Fathers  and  Sons,  or  one  of  her  other 
Felix  books,  she  often  opened  her  window  to  hear  them  more 
plainly.  But  she  never  did  this  when  it  was  at  all  cold,  for 
she  was  extremely  nervous  about  every  one's  health,  includ- 
ing her  own.  Felix,  who  loved  teasing  people,  sometimes 
reproached  her  with  her  fears  of  illness,  saying  that  they  were 
unworthy  in  a  Christian  woman.  Mrs.  Wilding  responded  by 
telling  him  to  'button  up'  his  chest  when  he  went  out,  or 
going  into  the  storeroom  to  compound  a  certain  cough  mix- 
ture with  which  she  loved  to  dose  herself,  her  family,  and  all 
the  parish.  The  parish  liked  it  because  it  was  very  sweet  and 
treacly.  Felix  took  it  when  Mrs.  Wilding  thought  he  was 
going  to  have  a  cough,  because  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
take  it  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and  had  never  known 
it  to  do  him  any  harm.  He  considered  it  as  part  and  parcel 
of  his  mother,  like  the  black  icewool  shawl  she  always  carried, 
or  left  about  and  sought  for.  She  very  easily  took  cold,  and 
had  a  strange  faith  in  the  protective  powers  of  this  shawl, 


8  FELIX 

which  was  perforated  with  holes  innumerable,  and,  being  also 
very  small,  hardly  seemed  likely  to  keep  bronchitis  at  arm's 
length.  Faith,  however,  in  connection  with  a  material  object 
can  work  wonders.  Mrs.  Wilding  generally  had  a  slight  cold, 
but  without  her  shawl  and  her  belief  in  it  she  might  never 
have  been  free  from  one. 

Feli.x  went  to  a  preparatory  school  near  Ascot  till  he  was 
fourteen,  and  afterwards  to  Rugby.  At  both  he  did  fairly 
well.  He  might  have  done  much  better  had  he  not  begun  to 
love  the  arts  at  an  age  when  most  boys  know  nothing  about 
them.  A  passionate  devotion  to  Schubert  and  Beethoven 
interfered  to  some  extent  with  the  affection  his  masters 
desired  to  direct  towards  C?esar  and  Ovid.  A  pianoforte 
recital,  such  as  he  occasionally  went  to  with  his  father,  excited 
him  for  weeks.  But  Caesar  left  him  very  cold.  Algebra 
absolutely  congealed  him.  He  was  frankly  a  fool  at  mathe- 
matics. For  classics  he  had  a  certain  amount  of  talent  and 
some,  but  not  a  great  deal  of,  love.  History  he  hated,  unless 
it  was  concerned  with  the  personal  romances  of  the  dead. 
The  advance  or  retrogression  of  nations,  their  fighting  in  old 
wars,  their  mercantile  pursuits  and  financial  affairs,  their 
weapons,  the  spreading  of  their  borders,  the  size  of  their 
armies  and  navies,  their  changes  of  belief  or  stern  steadfast- 
ness in  faiths,  their  domestic  circumstances,  their  public 
virtues,  all  these  facts  came  before  a  scarcely  concentrated 
mind  when  they  presented  themselves  to  Felix.  He  did  not 
want  to  dive  iuco  antiquity  through  the  medium  of  books,  or 
to  rake  too  sedulously  among  the  ashes  of  the  past.  But 
certain  dead  and  imagined  people  found  in  him  a  lover. 

He  worshipped  Dante  as  much  as  he  loathed  Oliver  Crom- 
well. Charles  the  Second  was  to  him  the  most  fascinating  of 
all  the  kings  of  England,  Ulysses  the  most  dear  of  all  wan- 
derers. As  a  boy  he  cared  more  for  poets  than  for  warriors, 
and  felt  himself  more  in  sympathy  with  minds  daring  in 
thought  than  with  bodies  daring  in  action.  Such  a  sympathy 
being  rare  among  boys  was  naturally  looked  upon  askance 
by  masters.  They  endeavoured  to  stamp  it  to  death  with 
heavy  hoofs.  It  lived  on  nevertheless.  There  was  much 
elasticity  in  Felix. 

He  was  remarkably  quick  in  acquiring  modern  languages, 
and  had  a  musical  ear  and  a  power  of  imitation  which  helped 
him  in  their  pronunciation.  Anything  connected  with  ma- 
chinery he  abhorred.  Only  something  like  necessity  brought 
him  at  last  to  a  comprehension  of  the  details  of  the  bicycle. 


FELIX  9 

His  powers  and  impotence  of  memory  were  a  perpetual  puzzle 
to  his  teachers.  Things  that  he  cared  for,  that  moved, 
excited,  surprised  him,  he  was  unable  to  forget.  Things  that 
seemed  to  him  dull,  pale,  ugly,  without  being  in  any  way  seiz- 
ing or  horrible,  he  was  equally  unable  to  remember.  He 
could  not  retain  facts  that  most  people  know  simply  because 
it  was  considered  the  proper  thing  to  know  them.  And  so 
his  ignorance  often  astonished  those  who  were  a  thousand 
times  more  stupid  than  he  was.  He  had  none  of  the  ardent 
desire  to  be  what  is  called  'well  informed,'  which  flames  in 
the  breasts  of  the  totally  unoriginal.  In  this  respect  he  was 
indeed  peculiarly  shameless,  and  he  was  capable  of  confess- 
ing without  a  blush  that  he  did  not  know  the  date  of  William 
the  Conqueror  or  the  favourite  colour  of  those  unbridled 
worthies,  the  ancient  Britons. 

His  examination  papers  offered  up  to  the  eyes  of  his  pre- 
ceptors a  strange  mixture  of  neatly  put  facts,  brilliantly 
written  reflections,  and  gross,  unpardonable  errors,  and  those 
who  taught  him  were  alternately  delighted  by  his  cleverness 
and  driven  to  despair  by  his  apparent  incapacity.  Although 
Felix  was  in  many  respects  unusually  sensitive,  he  often 
seemed  strangely  indifferent  to  the  opinions  of  his  school- 
masters. This  indifference  sprang  from  the  root  of  his  cos- 
mopolitanism. Some  people  who  have  not  travelled  are 
nevertheless  perpetually  conscious  of  the  existence  of  the 
great  world  that  lies  beyond  the  limit  of  their  sight,  beyond 
the  borders  of  their  country.  Though  they  dwell  within  nar- 
row boundaries  they  are  acutely  aware  that  they  are  narrow, 
and  wish  for  their  enlargement.  At  heart  they  are  cosmopoli- 
tan. Felix  was  one  of  these.  Unfortunately,  the  men  who 
instructed  him,  although  excellent  and  educated,  were  men 
whose  opportunities  of  coming  into  touch  with  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  minds  had  been  limited.  Some  of  them  were 
clever,  but  they  were — or  seemed  to  Felix — devoid  of  any 
large  aspirations,  and  absurdly  contented  with  their  rather 
humdrum  lot.  He  thought  of  them  as  circus-horses,  canter- 
ing gently  round  and  round,  and  kicking  up  with  their  well- 
trained  hoofs  nothing  but  sawdust.  It  was  a  pity  that  the 
teacher  with  whom  he  had  most  to  do  chanced  to  be  a  prig, 
who  honestly,  and  with  his  whole  heart,  believed  that  Ox- 
ford was  the  world,  and  that  the  world  was  Oxford.  The 
man  who  had  not  been  to  Oxford  was  to  this  admirable  dul- 
lard an  altogether  unfortunate  and  inferior  being,  deprived 
inevitably  of  grace  and  culture,  one  who  could  never  hope  to 


10  FELIX 

hold  his  own  worthily,  or  to  be  upon  equal  terms  with  those 
who  had  been  duly  crowned  and  sceptred  by  the  great  Uni- 
versity. Even  at  Cambridge  men  he  could  but  sniff.  True 
culture,  he  conceived,  came  not  from  there.  Realising  that 
Felix  was  not  an  ordinary  boy,  he  endeavoured  to  obtain  what 
he  would  have  called  *a  right  influence  '  over  him.  The 
influence  he  obtained  amounted  to  this,  that  he  planted  in 
Felix's  mind  a  rigid  determination  never  to  become  an 
undergraduate. 

Mrs.  Wilding  was  upset  when  she  heard  of  this  determina- 
tion. Her  husband  had  been  at  Oxford.  So  had  her  father, 
who  was  now  dead,  and  her  two  brothers.  She  thought  that 
every  boy  ought  to  go  there  unless  his  people  were  too  poor 
to  send  him.  At  this  juncture  she  endeavoured  to  play  a 
father's  part,  assisted  by  recollections  of  her  private  library. 
She  tried  to  speak  to  Felix  with  the  authority  and  passion 
of  a  paternal  old  Oxonian,  presenting  diligently  the  inesti- 
mable advantages  of  an  Oxford  education.  Naturally  she 
failed.  Felix  listened,  at  first  with  surprise,  at  last  with  un- 
disguised amusement,  to  her  unconvincing  arguments,  and 
his  final,  '  Why,  mater,  what  on  earth  can  you  know  about 
it?'  was  a  question  her  own  heart  had  already  answered. 
For  she  was  generally  truthful  even  to  herself. 

At  the  end  of  their  rather  complicated  conversation  Felix 
expressed  a  strong  desire  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  France  when 
he  left  Rugby,  in  order  to  study  there  the  French  language, 
which  already  he  began  to  love. 

INIrs.  Wilding  was  not  one  of  those  good  Englishwomen 
who  think  that  the  Devil,  at  an  early  stage  in  his  career, 
became  naturalised  as  a  Frenchman  and  went  to  live  perma- 
nently in  Paris.  In  her  youth  she  had  been  a  good  deal  in 
the  south  of  France  and  had  made  many  French  friends. 
She  had,  indeed,  very  pleasant  recollections  of  the  country. 
But  she  was  certainly  startled  by  her  son's  request.  Soon 
after  it  was  made  she  went  upstairs  to  her  bedroom,  whose 
windows  looked  out  over  what  she  called  the '  church- 
garden  '  to  the  church.  It  was  the  summer  vacation.  The 
weather  was  warm  and  still.  She  sat  down  alone  by  the 
open  lattice,  laid  her  icewool  shawl  on  the  sill  within  easy 
reach  of  her  hand,  and  began  to  think  this  matter  out. 

What  would  Felix's  father  have  said  to  it  ?  In  any  diffi- 
culty Mrs.  Wilding  always  sought  to  realise  the  probable, 
or  possible,  workings  of  the  dear  dead  man's  mind.  And 
when  she  failed  in  that  endeavour  she  would  have  recoiirse 


FELIX  11 

to  books,  make  as  it  were  an  amalgam  of  the  minds  of  many 
father  s,  three-quarters  of  them  fictional,  and,  in  a  sort  of 
plural  impersonation,  look  upon  the  doubtful  matter  with  an 
eye  shrewd,  so  she  hoped,  as  the  eye  of  all  paternity. 

To-day,  gazing  out  over  the  narrow  lawn,  the  thick  yew 
hedge,  and  the  deeply  sunken  road  beyond  it,  to  the  church- 
yard with  its  carefully  shaven  grass  and  rows  of  graves,  she 
recalled  her  husband,  whole,  to  her  mind.  That  was  easy, 
since  he  lay  in  her  heart  always.  She  saw  him  again  in  the 
sunshine,  drew  him  into  this  old-fashioned,  fragrant  room, 
which  had  once  been  his  as  well  as  hers,  and  asked  him 
silently  to  speak.  Under  the  latticed  window  martens  were 
flying.  Maxwell,  the  sexton,  was  doing  something  with  a 
spade  among  the  humble  green  graves  of  the  poor.  He 
whistled  as  he  worked.  There  was  a  low  and  shifting  music 
of  bees  from  the  wild  roses  which  clambered  on  this  side  of 
the  house,  and  a  dull  noise  of  wheels  from  the  hidden  road. 
It  died  away  down  the  steep  descent. 

The  dead  man  would  not  speak  to-day  to  the  woman  who 
loved  him.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and 
she  saw  in  his  eyes  that,  despite  his  old  love  for  her,  he  had, 
and  could  have,  no  more  concern  with  life.  He  had  passed  on 
and  there  was  no  real  returning,  even  in  thought,  or  in  prayer, 
and  for  a  moment.  And  she  fancied  that  perhaps  it  was  faultily 
weak  of  her  to  cry  so  often  to  him  silently  for  assistance.  She 
wondered,  too,  as  she  had  sometimes  wondered  before,  wheth- 
er'any  selfishness  of  those  on  earth  can  effect  the  completeness 
of  the  happiness  of  those  in  heaven,  whether  the  pleading  ap- 
peals of  souls  still  earth-bound,  and  so  often  inevitably  har- 
assed and  unhappy,  can  trouble  or  touch  with  a  momentary 
chill  anxiety  the  serene  souls  of  those  whom  God  has  blessed 
by  taking  them  to  Himself.  She  wished  she  could  know.  But 
the  mere  doubt  caused  her  to  think  of  herself  as  almost  a  wick- 
ed woman,  one  who  had  sought  to  trouble  the  peace  of  saints. 

With  an  effort  that  hurt  her  she  forced  herself  to  turn  away 
from  the  dead  man,  even  to  make  a  conscious  endeavour  to 
repel  him.  She  had  called  to  him,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  he 
had  heard  her,  but  that  he  could  not  reply.  Is  it  not  cruel  of 
mortals  to  bring  home  to  spirits  their  impotence  by  imploring 
them  to  do  what  they  may  not,  cannot  do  ?  With  this  question 
trembling  in  her  Mrs.  Wilding  rose  suddenly  from  her  chair  by 
the  window.  The  action  broke  the  spell  her  gentle  imagina- 
tion had  been  weaving,  and  just  then  the  voice  of  Felix  called 
to  Margot  from  the  garden.     The  brother  and  sister  were  go- 


12  FELIX 

ing  out  riding  together.  Mab,  Felix's  mastiff,  barked  loudly 
from  the  yard.  She  had  seen  the  horses  brought  out  from 
the  stable  and  was  excited  at  the  prospect  of  a  run.  Mrs. 
Wilding  began  to  consider  earnestly  Felix's  proposal  that  he 
should  go  to  France. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  believe  that  mothers  who  love  their  sons 
instinctively  understand  them.  They  understand  part  of  them, 
perhaps.  They  know  certain,  even  many  things  of  and  in  them. 
But  they  often  come  to  closed  doors,  whether  they  choose  to 
say  to  themselves  that  the  doors  are  closed  or  not.  If  Mrs. 
Wilding  had  thoroughly  understood  Felix  she  might  have  been 
able  to  forecast  how  this  contemplated  sojourn  would  be  likely 
to  effect  him,  whether  it  would  change  him,  and,  if  so,  in  what 
way.  She  felt  she  could  not  tell.  And,  because  she  could  not 
tell,  she  was  frightened  to  let  him  go.  Once  more  her  reading 
failed  her  at  the  critical  juncture.  She  was  amazed  at  the  use- 
lessness  of  books  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  another  moment, 
was  blaming  her  own  stupidity.  She  was  a  very  humble 
woman,  never  concious  of  any  power  of  intellect  in  herself  or 
any  beauty  of  nature.  The  only  thing  she  was  conscious  of 
was  that  she  earnestly  wished  always  to  do  right. 

In  the  evening  of  that  day  after  dinner  Felix  returned  to  the 
charge,  and  his  mother,  not  having  been  able  to  make  up  her 
mind  what  a  father  would  have  said  in  answer  to  so  excited  and 
impetuous  a  demand,  granted  it  with  many  internal  misgivings. 
So,  when  he  was  eighteen  and  a  half,  Felix  went  to  France. 
His  mother,  through  a  friend,  heard  of  a  charming  old  French 
lady  who  had  a  house  buried  in  the  flowery  depths  of  the 
garden  province  of  Touraine.  The  old  lady's  income  was 
very  small,  and  she  received  English  people  who  wanted  to 
acquire  the  most  perfect  of  French  accents,  and  who  were 
not  afraid  of  simplicity  and  quiet  in  a  place  many  miles  from 
a  railway,  and  even  lying  quite  off  the  highroad. 

Mrs.  Wilding  thought  that  Felix  could  come  to  no  harm  at 
La  Maison  des  Alouettes. 


CHAPTER   II 

FELIX'S  life  in  France  delighted  him.  At  first  he  was 
boyishly  enchanted  by  the  novelty  of  it.  On  his  way 
to  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  he  spent  one  night  at  Tours,  stop- 
ping at  the  Hotel  de  Bordeaux  near  the  station.  It  was 
early  summer,  and  the  weather  was  already  warm.  On  the 
evening  of  his  arrival  he  went  out  for  a  walk,  wandered  through 
the  narrow  paved  streets  among  the  tall  grey  houses,  gazed  up 
at  the  twin  towers  of  the  Cathedral  of  Saint  Gatien,  and  finally 
found  his  way  to  the  Loire.  Here  he  stayed  till  it  was  quite 
dark.  There  had  been  much  rain  that  spring,  and  the  river 
was  in  flood  and  flowing  rapidly.  Its  breadth  astonished  the 
boy.  All  along  the  banks  people  were  fishing.  Seen  from  a 
distance  they  looked  like  dolls  leaning  over  the  shadowy 
water.  A  bugle  sounded  from  the  barracks,  and  from  the  wood- 
ed island  beyond  the  bridge  came  the  melody  of  a  Viennese 
waltz  tune  played  by  a  string  band.  The  river  eddied  round 
the  stone  piers  of  the  bridge  with  a  dull,  sucking  murmur. 
Some  soldiers  went  by,  and  two  women  in  white  caps,  with 
enormous  frills  and  long  white  streamers.  A  pretty  little  girl, 
bareheaded,  and  dressed  in  a  pale-pink  cotton  frock,  came  up 
to  Felix  and  offered  him  roses  from  a  big  basket  which  she 
carried  on  her  arm.  While  he  was  buying  some  the  sound  of  the 
band  on  the  island,  which  had  died  away,  stole  again  over  the 
water.  It  was  playing  a  Hungarian  tune  full  of  shuddering  mel- 
ancholy and  fire.  The  dolls  on  the  high  banks  of  the  river  bent 
over  their  thin  black  lines,  and  the  sky  grew  darker,  Felix  was 
filled  with  a  rapture  that  was  chaotic  and  half  painful.  All  the 
beauties,  the  mysteries,  the  passions,  and  the  sorrows  of  life 
seemed  suddenly  to  flow  together,  and  to  pass  murmuring 
through  his  heart  as  the  river  passed  murmuring  through  the 
arches  of  the  bridge.  Tears  sprang  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
longed  to  do  something  great,  to  create  something  or  to  help 
somebody.  But  the  longing,  though  violent,  was  vague.  It 
was  like  a  fluid  that  cannot  be  grasped.  It  swept  on  and  away 
into  the  darkness,  and  Felix  thought  that  he  could  hear  the 
whispering  voice  of  it  dying  down  in  the  dimness  of  the  night. 

13 


14  FELIX 

The  band  on  the  island  ceased  from  playing,  and  he  turned  to 
go  back  to  the  hotel.  He  descended  the  Rue  Nationale, 
walking  slowly.  The  pavement  was  thronged.  Young  men 
strolled  along  with  short  black  cloaks  hanging  from  their 
shoulders.  Women  passed  with  flowers  stuck  into  their  hair 
and  thin  shawls  over  their  arms.  Felix  thought  of  his  mother's 
icesvool  shawl,  and  felt  abruptly  homesick  and  lonely.  Pres- 
ently he  came  to  some  cafe's.  They  were  brilliantly  lit  up. 
Inside  them  waiters  with  short  bristling  hair  and  white  aprons 
hurried  to  and  fro,  jingling  cups  and  glasses,  and  shouting 
'  Via,  Moftsieur  r  Out  in  the  air  stood  many  little  tables 
People  sat  by  them  smoking  short,  almost  black  cigars,  and 
drinking  coffee  and  mysterious  liquids  that  Felix  had  never 
seen  before.  In  front  of  one  cafd  he  hesitated.  He  thought 
of  sitting  down,  of  ordering  something  and  staring  at  the 
passers-by  like  the  other  customers.  But  he  walked  on.  He 
felt  suddenly  uncomfortable  in  the  midst  of  all  these  stran- 
gers, and  as  if  they  were  hostile  to  him  and  he  were  hostile  to 
them.  The  sensation  died  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born. 
When  he  reached  the  Place  by  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  and  saw 
the  fountain  playing  and  the  trees,  he  resolved  to  join  the 
drinkers  and  smokers,  though,  being  alone,  he  could  not  share 
their  vivacity.  He  sat  down  by  a  table  on  the  pavement  and, 
after  some  consideration,  called  for  an  absinthe.  When  it  was 
brought,  and  he  had  sipped  it,  he  thought  it  disgusting.  He 
did  not  finish  it,  but  sat  looking  about  him.  Two  men  close 
by  were  playing  dominoes.  One  was  quite  young.  He  wore  a 
short  black  beard.  His  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  there  were 
blue  rings  round  his  eyes,  which  looked  feverish  and  tired. 
He  talked  incessantly,  and  Felix  noticed  that  his  hands,  which 
were  horribly  thin,  trembled  almost  as  if  he  had  palsy.  To 
Felix  in  his  ignorance,  this  man  appeared  to  be  a  sort  of  in- 
carnation of  the  life  of  cities  and  of  their  vices.  He  imagined 
him  going  at  night  down  side-streets  into  extraordinary 
houses,  gambling,  cheating,  getting  drunk,  making  love  to 
other  men's  wives.  And  he  examined  him  with  a  sort  of  half- 
respectful  curiosity  mingled  with  disgust.  The  man,  who  was 
a  commercial  traveller  afflicted  with  chronic  dyspepsia,  went 
on  pla\ing  dominoes  without  taking  any  notice  of  Felix. 
Occasionally  he  sipped  some  lager  beer  from  a  tall  glass  which 
stood  beside  the  domino-box.  He  was  really  quite  respectable, 
a  good  citizen,  and  an  ardent  admirer  of  Drumont,  whom  he 
looked  upon  as  the  highest  type  of  .patriot.  He  made  Felix 
think  for  the  first  time  with  definiteness  of  a  town  life  and  of 


FELIX  16 

what  it  must  be  like.  The  pallor  of  the  commercial  traveller's 
face  continued  to  excite  him  for  many  minutes,  and  the  rat- 
tling of  the  dominoes  on  the  marble-topped  table  sounded  in 
his  ears  like  the  murmurs  of  a  dissipation  which  he  knew 
nothing  of. 

Presently  he  heard  a  church  clock  strike  ten.  He  paid  for 
his  absinthe,  knocking  on  the  table  with  the  knob  of  his  stick 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  gar^on,  and  got  up  to  go  back 
to  the  hotel.  Just  before  he  turned  the  corner  by  the  Hotel 
de  rUnivers  he  glanced  back  at  the  fountain  and  noticed 
the  great  statue  of  Balzac.  It  loomed  up  in  the  faint  light 
cast  by  the  lamps  with  a  bulky  impressiveness  which  attracted 
Felix  strongly.  He  retraced  his  steps  till  he  stood  before  it. 
Although  he  had  never  read  one  of  Balzac's  books,  this  effigy 
of  the  famous  man  who  had  been  devoured  by  a  genius  that 
was  almost  like  a  vice  within  him,  compelling  him  to  defy 
the  laws  of  health,  stirred  Felix  strongly.  In  the  rather 
theatrical  illumination  and  blackness  produced  by  the 
lights  of  the  cafe  and  the  masses  of  trees,  the  face  of  the 
statue  looked  heavily  powerful  and  ruthless,  like  a  face  that 
confronts  everything  in  the  world  without  fear,  without  pity, 
but  with  a  penetrating  determination  to  know  the  truth, 
Felix  stayed  for  several  minutes  to  gaze  at  it,  and  it  made  him 
feel  very  acutely  how  little  he  knew  of  the  truth  of  anything. 
His  youth  and  ignorance  oppressed  him.  He  resolved  to 
come  back  and  see  the  statue  in  daylight,  and  on  the  morrow 
he  returned.    Again  he  received  from  it  the  same  impression. 

La  Maison  des  Alouettes  stood  on  a  hill  quite  alone.  An 
avenue  shaded  by  two  lines  of  tall  poplars,  and  running  at 
right  angles  to  the  highroad,  led  to  its  iron  gate,  which  was 
set  in  a  big  white  wall.  The  house  was  an  old  farmhouse 
covered  with  creepers,  which  reminded  Felix  of  those  which 
grew  on  the  walls  of  his  home.  Small  windows  peered  out 
from  the  mass  of  greenery,  and  were  protected  from  the  fierce 
suns  of  summer  by  striped  awnings  fastened  to  iron  rods 
painted  white.  Behind  the  house  was  a  bowery  garden 
stretching  up  a  gentle  hill,  and  in  one  corner  of  it,  sheltered 
by  trees,  stood  the  remains  of  an  old  ruined  chapel,  almost 
concealed  by  the  green  mosses  which  clung  to  the  crumbling 
stones.  The  nearest  village,  Artannes,  was  several  kilome- 
tres away,  and  the  peace  of  this  country  flooded  with  tree 
and  plant  life  was  profound  and  unchanging.  On  still  days 
the  ringing  of  the  distant  Angelus  bell  could  be  faintly  heard 
from  the  court,  and  at  night  hidden  frogs  gave  forth  their 


16  FELIX 

glassy  note,  and  the  night-jar  whirred.     The  cows  lowed  in 
the  yard  beyond  the  farm-buildings,  and  Brisa,  Madame  Ber- 
nard's little  Maltese  dog,  barked  at  the  bats  which  flew  low 
over  the  yellow  gravel.     A  verandah  ran  along  the  front  of 
the  house,  and  here  Madame  Bernard's  guests  used  to  sit  to 
take  their  coffee  and  improve  their  French  accent  after  din- 
ner at  half-past  six.     Felix  loved  these  quiet  evenings  of  sum- 
mer.    The  talk  was  often  gay,  for  Madame — or  Grand'mbre, 
as  nearly  every  one  called  her — thought  it  incumbent  upon 
her  to  be  very  conversational,  and,  despite  the   many  mis- 
fortunes and  sorrows  with  which  fate  had  tried  to  overwhelm 
her,  preserved  a  great  vivacity  of  spirit.     In   the  occasional 
pauses  of  the   talk  the  silence  was  like  a  soft  green  liquid, 
bathing  the  dwellers  in  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  and  flowing 
out  over  the  sloping  vineyards  to  the  river,  which  ran  through 
the   valley  between  forests  of  enormous  rushes.     Even  the 
stars  that  twinkled  over  the  garden  province  looked  blessedly 
countrified,  Felix  sometimes  thought.     He  wrote  home    en- 
thusiastic descriptions  of  all  the  rural  joys.     This  was  in  his 
first  summer.     He  had  quite  forgotten  the  pale  face  of  the 
commercial  traveller  at  the  Cafe'  de  I'Univers,  the  sound  of 
the  rattling  dominoes,  and  all  his  thoughts  of  towns  that  night. 
There  were  two  other  boys  in  the  house  learning  French, 
and  in  August  two  girls,  sisters,  twenty  and  twenty-two  re- 
spectively, were  added  to  the  party.     Various  expeditions 
were  made.     Madame  Bernard  mounted  into  an  old  waggon- 
ette, from  which  she  chaperoned  her  five  guests,  who  rode 
their  bicycles,  going  slowly  to  suit  the  paces  of  the  fat,  white 
horse.     In   this    fashion  the  neighbouring  country  was  dis- 
creetly scoured,  and  many  of  the  chateaux  were  seen.     Felix 
loved  the  chateaux.     Their  beauties,  fashioned  by  the  pious 
dead,  touched  him  strangely.     Their  gardens  filled  his  heart 
with  'the  sound  of  Time's  footsteps.     In   one  there  was  an 
old,  uncovered  well.     He  looked  down  into  it,  and  saw  water 
dripping   from   the    edges  of    the    stones,  and    these    drops 
seemed  to  him  like  the  tears  of  the  things  that  remain  for 
the  men  and  women  who  must  pass  so  quickly  away.     Some- 
times he  went  off  alone  for  long  tours  on   his  bicycle.     And 
he  was  very  happy  on  these  solitary  excursions. 

When  the  autumn  of  his  first  year  in  France  was  dying  into 
winter,  he  one  day  set  out  for  a  walk  by  himself.  He  was 
now  Madame  Bernard's  sole  guest.  The  two  sisters  had 
only  come  out  to  spend  a  summer  holiday,  and  the  two  boys 
had   gone  back  to   England  in  October,  magnificently  im- 


EELIX  17 

proved  in  French,  and  lustily  blessing  Grand'mere.  They 
were  to  enter  at  Scoones's.  Felix  did  not  miss  them  much. 
He  had  got  on  with  them  quite  well,  but  he  had  not  found 
them  very  interesting.  They  were,  in  fact,  ordinary,  good- 
tempered,  healthy  English  lads,  fond  of  what  they  called  a 
'  lark,'  and  '  up  to  anything '.  Felix  liked  a  lark  too,  but  he 
had  other  tastes  which  they  did  not  share.  He  enjoyed  bicy- 
cling with  them,  or  going  on  the  river  with  them.  But  their 
perpetual  society  was  scarcely  stimulating.  On  parting  they 
had  all  sworn  to  meet  again  in  England,  and  have  a  '  rare  old 
spree  ',  Meanwhile  Felix  and  Grand'mere  were  en  tete-a-tcte. 
To-day  Grand'mere  was  confined  to  the  house  with  a  chill. 

It  was  the  first  really  cold  day  of  the  winter.  There  was 
the  breath  of  frost  in  the  air.  The  vines  slept  in  the  hard 
brown  earth,  and  the  river  flowed  sullenly  between  the  dis- 
coloured and  shivering  reeds.  As  Felix  turned  out  of  the 
avenue  into  the  highroad  he  saw  a  solitary  water-hen  steer- 
ing through  the  leaden  flood,  which  broke  into  tiny  ripples 
round  its  feathery  breast.  In  these  ripples  there  was  a  faint 
and  momentary  hint  of  light.  The  bird  disappeared  in  the 
shadow  of  the  further  bank.  Felix  stood  for  a  moment 
waiting  to  see  it  come  out  into  the  main  stream.  But  appar- 
ently it  preferred  to  stay  under  shelter.  He  buttoned  up 
his  coat  and  proceeded  on  his  lonely  walk. 

The  aspect  of  the  country  had  suddenly  changed.  Hitherto 
it  had  looked  like  a  great,  rich,  tangled  garden  in  which 
everything  grew  rankly,  abundantly,  pushing  its  way  to  the 
air  and  the  sun  with  an  almost  violent  disregard  of  its  neigh- 
bours. Even  in  the  dying  autumn  Felix  had  not  been  con- 
scious of  the  greatness  of  the  transformation  that  was  active 
around  him,  among  the  woods,  in  the  deep  meadows,  along 
the  hillsides,  in  the  gardens  of  the  frugal,  steadfast  peasants, 
and  by  the  borders  of  the  river.  He  had  watched  the  chang-- 
ing  hues  of  the  leaves,  and  had  rejoiced  in  the  pageant  that 
went  gorgeously  before  the  oncoming  car  of  death.  But 
now  he  stood  by  the  car.  During  the  last  few  days  a  wild 
wind  had  been  blowing  in  the  valley.  It  had  shaken  the 
leaves  from  the  trees.  The  poplars  stood  bare  along  the 
white  road.  The  hedges  were  half  naked.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  imagine  the  big  grapes  bulging  with  their  sweet  juices 
in  the  vineyards,  which  had  an  aspect  of  surely  abiding  bar- 
renness. And  the  sky  was  heavy  with  clouds.  Mists  lay 
wreathed  among  the  aisles  of  the  woods  above  the  orange- 
tangle  of  the  rotting  ferns,  and  by  the  river.     The  green 


18  FELIX 

silence  of  the  summer  had  flowed  away  to  some  far-off  garden 
of  the  sun.  Yet  there  was  beauty  in  this  cold,  still  empti- 
ness, dignity  in  the  brown  slopes  of  the  vineyards,  and  in  the 
sternly  naked  trees,  which  showed  the  delicate  perfection  of 
their  limbs  distinctly  now  that  their  leaves  were  gone.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  Felix  asked  himself  the  question.  Is 
there  any  ugliness  in  Nature,  in  any  season,  if  she  has  been 
left  unaltered  by  the  hand  of  man  ?  And  he  was  aware  that 
in  this  absence  of  any  attempt  at  decoration,  in  this  fadmg 
away  of  colour,  there  was  loveliness;  loveliness  in  this  dull, 
grey  sky  dashed  with  long  lines  and  gashes  of  white,  in  the 
paler  greys  and  the  browns  of  the  trees,  in  the  faint  grey 
greens  of  the  grasses  and  of  the  biamble  leaves,  in  the  white 
of  the  road,  which  was  more  blinding  and  less  mysterious 
than  the  white  of  the  broken  patches  in  the  sky. 

Presently  the  road  sank  between  high,  crumbling  banks  of 
brown  earth.  It  was  impossible  to  see  far  here,  and  Felix 
was  glad.  He  liked  the  sudden  dimness  created  by  the 
tangle  of  the  trees  that  spread  away  and  upward  on  either 
side  of  him.  His  intention  was  to  continue  on  the  road  which 
led  eventually  to  Sachet.  He  had  some  idea  of  visiting  the 
cure  there,  with  whom  he  sometimes  fished,  and  perhaps  of 
strolling  through  the  garden  of  the  chateau  where  Balzac 
once  rose  in  the  noon  of  night  to  work  till  the  noon  of  day. 
But  presently  he  saw  a  little  path  winding  to  the  right  among 
the  tree  trunks.  Although  he  had  often  walked  this  way  he 
had  never  noticed  it  before.  And  as  he  was  repelled  by  the 
present  aspect  of  the  open  country,  and  found  it  almost  hor- 
rible in  its  sickly  intensity,  he  resolved  to  follow  the  path 
which  was  sheltered  in  its  beginnings.  He  therefore  turned 
from  the  road  and  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

The  path,  though  narrow,  was  very  definite,  and  no  doubt 
led  either  to  another  country  road  or  to  some  woodman's  or 
keeper's  hut  in  the  forest,  which  stretched  for  a  long  way 
here.  Felix  followed  it  with  a  certain  curiosity,  wondering 
whether  he  would  come  to  the  home  of  a  solitary  at  its  end, 
whether  he  would  find  some  one  with  whom  he  might  break 
the  spell  of  the  white  silence  that  was  so  suffocating.  The 
twigs  which  lay  here  and  there  on  the  path  crackled  under 
his  feet,  and  the  yellow  and  bending  ferns  shook  feebly  as  he 
brushed  against  them  in  passing.  To  right  and  left  of  him 
he  saw  the  mysterious  vistas  of  the  forest,  full  of  the  debris 
of  the  autumn  which  the  rains  of  winter  had  not  yet  turned 
to  the  utter  rottenness  so  longed  for  by  the  tranquil  ground. 


FELIX  19 

The  wayward  bushes  hunched  themselves  together  in  un- 
natural shapes,  and  the  curious  parasites  of  the  trees  clung 
and  crawled  about  the  gnarled  bases  of  the  trunks.  Mosses, 
showing  gleams  of  the  palest  yellow  among  their  green,  up- 
turned their  queer  little  horns  like  tails  of  angry  scorpions. 
A  strange  bramble,  with  leaves  whose  under  sides  were  claret- 
coloured,  flourished  sturdily,  holding  its  own  where  all  else 
bowed  to  the  growing  will  of  winter.  And  here,  among  the 
trees,  Felix  mingled  the  breath  that  came  from  his  lips  like 
smoke  with  another  breath  that  was  not  in  the  open  country, 
a  breath  cold,  vital,  and  deep-drawn,  issuing  from  the  lungs 
of  the  woods. 

The  path  wound  on  and  on,  but  no  habitation  appeared,  nor 
even  a  clearing  marked  by  the  stacks  that  proved  the  wood- 
cutter's labour.  Felix  began  to  despair  of  coming  upon  the 
solitary,  whose  presence  he  suspected,  and  whom  he  wished  to 
see.  Perhaps  this  path  existed  only  for  the  passage  of  those 
who  mark  the  trees,  or  was  trodden  by  children  seeking  wild 
flowers  in  the  more  gentle  days  of  the  year.  Every  moment 
he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  stop  and  turn  back,  but  the 
path  tempted  him  forward.  It  curved,  and  he  felt  that  he  must 
just  see  what  lay  beyond  the  curve,  or  it  sank  down  into  a 
depression,  and  he  thought  that  he  must  explore  that  nook  ere 
he  went  homeward.  At  length  he  heard  among  the  trees  a  soft, 
shuffling  sound  as  the  smaller  twigs  bent  and  cracked.  He 
looked  up.  Heavy  snowflakes  were  falling.  He  made  up  his 
mind  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  was  actually  swinging  round  to 
do  so,  when  he  saw  a  thin  spiral  of  blue-grey  smoke  rising 
among  the  trees  and  the  white  flakes.  There  was  a  hermitage 
here.  He  had  not  been  mistaken.  He  walked  on  and,  in  two 
or  three  minutes,  came  to  a  small  open  space  in  which  stood  a 
low  white  cottage  with  a  sloping  roof  covered  with  slates. 
Two  or  three  hens  were  scratching  and  pecking  before  the 
door,  which  stood  half  opened,  showing  the  pale  glimmer  of  a 
just-born  fire  ;  and  as  Felix  approached,  a  small  yellow  dog, 
whose  pointed  nose  was  in  ill  accord  with  a  drastically  curled 
and  pug-like  tail,  stepped  leisurely  out  intothe  air,  lifted  up  its 
voice  and  uttered  a  tiny  but  very  piercing  bark.  The  glimmer 
of  the  fire  was  suddenly  hidden,  the  yellow  dog's  tail  wagged 
without  uncurling,  the  door  was  pushed  more  widely  open,  and 
a  small,  and  apparently  very  old  man  appeared,  bending  for- 
ward his  head  and  peering  out  tlirough  the  snow. 

Felix  drew  near  and  saluted  him.    Certainly  he  was  very  old. 
His  small    face,  covered  with  a   brownish-yellow  skin   that 


20  FELIX 

looked  almost  like  leather,  was  seamed  with  deep  wrinkles. 
His  lips  were  folded  inwards,  and  moved  incessantly  under  a 
bristling  white  moustache,  in  which  two  or  three  black  hairs 
still  sprouted  in  a  curiously  unnatural  manner.  His  pointed 
chin,  beneath  which  the  skin  hung  loose  in  bags,  was  graced  by 
a  fierce  little  imperial.  Uader  a  very  overhanging  forehead 
and  dense,  tufted  eyebrows,  a  pair  of  small,  attentive,  blue 
eyes  looked  out  with  a  keen  and  almost  hectoring  gaze.  His 
figure  was  slight  but  sturdy,  though  the  back  was  perceptibly 
curved  outward  between  the  shoulders.  His  hands  were  wide 
and  covered  with  immense  veins.  He  wore  an  old,  patched 
blouse,  dark  blue  in  colour,  and  a  pair  of  neat  black  trousers  of 
some  stout  material  and  rather  oddly  cut.  They  were  elabo- 
rately rolled  up  at  the  bottoms,  showing  peasant's  boots  with 
gigantic  soles  and  toes  turning  upward.  When  Felix  saluted 
him  this  old  person  stood  with  one  hand  upon  his  wooden  front 
door  and  bowed.  After  bowing  he  coughed  twice,  and  his 
cough  sounded  ceremonial. 

'  Can  you  tell  me  where  this  path  will  take  me,  if  you  please 
Monsieur  ? '  said  Felix  in  his  best  French. 

'  It  ceases  here,  Monsieur,'  replied  the  old  man  politely,  in  a 
high,  thin  voice,  which  reminded  Felix  of  the  voice  of  the  little 
yellow  dog. 

Felix  saw  that  the  path  did  not  continue  beyond  the  cottage, 
round  which  the  forest  stood  grimly  receiving  the  benediction 
of  the  snow.  The  little  yellow  dog,  bracing  all  the  muscles  in 
its  thin  body  tightly,  came  smelling  assiduously  round  his 
boots,  with  an  air  of  stern  and  legitimate  inquiry. 

*Back,Honord  ! '  cried  the  old  man.  'Is  Monsieur  a  bone, 
then?' 

The  dog  took  no  notice  of  this  injunction,  but  continued 
its  investigation  of  the  boots  with  an  ardour  that  became 
asthmatic. 

'You  call  him  Honord? '  said  Felix. 

'  Yes,  Monsieur.' 

'  It's  a  fine  name,'  said  Felix,  thinking  of  Honord  de  Balzac. 

The  old  man,  who  had  hitherto  maintained  an  attitude  and 
expression  of  rather  dignified  reserve  mingled  with  cour- 
teous inquiry,  suddenly  looked  cordial.  All  the  innumerable 
wrinkles  in  his  small  face  deepened  as  he  smiled,  and  the  tuft 
of  his  imperial  thrust  itself  forward,  while  his  lips  stretched 
themselves  till  his  mouth  became  enormous.  He  pushed  back 
the  stout  wooden  door,  and  Felix  saw  the  flames  of  a  log  fire 
beginning  to  mount  merrily  from  a  stone  hearth  up  a  wide 


FELIX  21 

chimney.  Meanwhile  the  snowfall  was  becoming  dense,  and 
his  hands  were  wet  with  the  cold  flakes  which  melted  as  they 
touched  him. 

'  Will  Monsieur  step  inside  ? '  said  the  old  man.  '  I  live  here 
quite  alone  but  for  little  Honore  and  the  little  Marthe. 
Back,  Honore  !     Leave  the  boots  of  Monsieur.' 

Felix  took  off  his  cap  and  entered.  He  found  himself  in  a 
good-sized  and  very  clean  room,  which  appeared  to  be  the  sole 
room  in  the  cottage,  for  there  was  only  the  door  by  which  he 
had  come  in,  and  it  was  evident  that  both  the  cooking  and  the 
sleeping  of  the  owner  took  place  here.  On  either  side  of  the 
hearth  were  a  few  plain  pots  and  pans.  Some  bottles  of  wine, 
without  labels,  stood  in  a  corner  behind  several  logs  of  beech. 
An  open  press,  painted  a  chocolate  colour,  disclosed  a  quantity 
of  cloth  neatly  folded.  On  a  round  table,  by  which  stood  two 
chairs  with  arms  and  straw  bottoms,  lay  some  cloth  cut  into  by 
a  huge  pair  of  tailor's  shears,  which  reposed  beside  it  among  a 
quantity  of  tags  and  snippets.  Other  remnants  had  fallen  to 
the  red-brick  floor,  which  was  partially  covered  by  two  or  three 
rough  straw  mats  with  green  edges.  At  the  back  of  the  room 
opposite  to  the  hearth  stood  a  big  wooden  bedstead  without 
curtains,  containing  a  mighty  feather-bed,  on  which  was 
perched  an  inflated  duvet  with  a  red  cover  from  which  several 
bits  of  grey  fluff  were  trying  to  escape.  Above  the  bed  was  a 
bookshelf  made  of  deal,  hung  upon  two  nails  by  strong  cords 
which  passed  through  two  holes  drilled  in  the  deal.  Along 
this  bookshelf  was  ranged  a  large  number  of  books,  all  of  the 
same  height,  and  all  bound  in  the  same  way  in  green  boards 
with  red  lettering  on  the  backs.  A  tiny  tabby-cat  sat  near 
the  fire,  hunched  up,  and  staring  at  the  flames  rather  sourly 
with  green  eyes  in  which  were  many  little  dark  specks.  It 
did  not  even  look  round  when  Felix  came  in.  This  was  the 
little  Marthe. 

'  Ah,  Monsieur,'  Felix  said  to  the  old  man,  who  hastily  set 
one  of  the  straw  chairs  for  him,  and  closed  the  door  on  the 
snow,  '  I  see  you  are  not  idle  here  in  the  forest  ? ' 

*  No  indeed,  Monsieur,'  he  replied,  brushing  the  snippets  of 
cloth  deftly  together  with  his  large-veined  hands,  and  carry- 
ing them  and  the  piece  from  which  they  had  been  clipped  to- 
wards the  press.     '  I  have  plenty  to  do  indeed.' 

*  You  are  a  tailor,  Monsieur  ?' 

The  old  man  had  his  back  to  Felix  at  this  moment,  and  was 
putting  away  the  cloth,  bending  down  so  that  his  head  covered 
with  short,  fierce-looking,  grey  hair,  was  nearly  concealed  by 


22  FELIX 

his  round  shoulders.  But  at  the  question  he  turned  sharply 
round,  drew  himself  up,  threw  his  chest  forward,  and,  spread- 
ing out  his  hands  in  a  fiery  and  dramatic  gesture,  exclaimed  : 

'  Monsieur,  I  am  the  tailor  of  Balzac  ! ' 

'  The  tailor  of  Balzac  !  '  repeated  the  boy,  completely 
puzzled. 

'  The  same,  Monsieur,'  said  the  old  man,  who  seemed,  with 
every  passing  second,  to  increase  in  dignity  and  pride.  *  You 
have,  perhaps,  heard  of  him.  Very  well,  I  who  speak  to  you — ■ 
I  am  he  ! ' 

'But '  said  Felix,  *  Balzac  has  been  dead  for — oh,  for  ever 
so  many  years.' 

The  old  man  advanced  from  the  press  to  the  fire,  always 
with  the  same  theatrical  and  striking  manner,  as  of  one  con- 
scious that  on  him  are  focussed  the  astonished  and  admiring 
eyes  of  a  universe.  His  movements  were  almost  processional, 
and  he  again  uttered  his  little  dry  cough,  covering  his  pursed- 
up  mouth  with  his  right  hand,  then  once  more  stretching  it 
forth  to  emphasise  his  remarks. 

'  Monsieur  supposes  me  to  be  young?'  he  said,  arriving  at 
the  hearth  and  standing  still  with  his  right  leg  slightly  bent. 

Felix  hardly  knew  what  to  reply.  The  question  was 
obviously  absurd,  and  was  possibly  intended  to  be  so.  Yet 
the  intonation  of  the  hermit's  voice  was  not  definitely  ironic, 
and  the  expression  that  emerged  from  the  embrace  of  his 
wrinkles,  which  seemed  to  Felix  to  become  incessantly  more 
numerous,  appeared  to  be  one  of  earnest  inquiry. 

'  I  cannot  guess  your  age,'  Felix  said,  with  an  attempt  at 
boyish  diplomacy.     '  But  surely  Balzac ' 

*  Monsieur,  I  am  seventy-five.' 

'Indeed.     As  much  as  that  ? ' 

'  Seventy-five,  Monsieur.  Judge  then  whether  I  am  speak- 
ing the  truth  when  I  say  that  I  am  Balzac's  tailor.' 

'  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  did  not  doubt  you  for  a  moment.  I  was 
only  surprised  and  interested.' 

The  old  man  looked  gratified,  and  straightened  his  leg  with 
a  sort  of  military  abruptness. 

'  All  the  world  is  surprised,  Monsieur.  It  is  not  every  day 
that  one  can  see  the  tailor  of  Balzac.  Pemit  me  to  offer 
you  a  glass  of  wine.' 

Felix  was  about  to  decline  this  suggestion  when  the  old  man 
hastened  to  the  corner  in  whicli  the  array  of  bottles  stood, 
selected  one,  and,  returning  to  the  table,  set   it  down  with 


FELIX  23 

such  obvious  hospitable  anxiety  that  he  thought  it  more 
polite  to  accept. 

'  There  are  glasses  in  the  press,'  added  his  host.  *  Very 
good  glasses.  They  came  from  Tours,  where  one  can  buy 
everything  of  the  best.' 

Moving  with  remarkable  agility  he  produced  two  thick 
goblets  mounted  on  fat  stems,  rubbed  them  carefully  inside 
and  out  with  a  duster,  uncorked  the  bottle,  and  poured  out 
some  red  wine. 

*  We  will  drink  to  him.  Monsieur,'  he  said  solemnly,  lifting 
his  glass  in  an  almost  religious  manner.  '  To  the  greatest 
man  who  ever  lived,  him  for  whom  I  made  trousers  without 
feet — Monsieur  Honore  de  Balzac' 

Felix,  who  was  on  the  point  of  raising  his  glass  to  his  lips 
when  the  old  gentleman  came  to  the  conclusion  of  his 
exordium,  very  nearly  dropped  it.  But  the  piercing  blue  eyes 
which  were  fixed  upon  him  startled  him  into  self-control.  He 
only  spilt  a  drop  or  two. 

'  Trousers  without  feet.  Monsieur,'  repeated  the  old  man, 
setting  down  his  glass,  and  smacking  his  lips  loudly  several 
times.     '  This  wine  comes  from  Vouvray,  I  assure  you.' 

*It  is  very  good,'  said  Felix.     'Excellent,' 

*  It  is  not  worthy  of  him,  but  it  is  quite  pure.  The  vine- 
yards of  Vouvray  are  famous.' 

'Then  you  knew  Balzac  ?'  asked  Felix. 

'  How  could  I  measure  him.  Monsieur,  if  I  did  not  know 
him?' 

The  old  man,  who  had  been  preparing  to  sit  down,  thought 
better  of  it,  stood  up  straight,  and  struck  another  attitude, 
holding  out  both  his  arms  and  raising  his  enormous,  tufted 
eyebrows.  Two  or  three  drops  of  wine  hung  at  the  left-hand 
corner  of  his  mouth.   His  eyes  began  to  shine  with  excitement. 

'  How  could  I  set  down  the  length  of  his  immortal  legs,  the 
size  of  his  calf,  the  span  of  his  waist,  if  I  did  not  know  him  ? 
Monsieur,  I  have  touched  him.  I  have  touched  a  god.  Did 
I  drop  the  tape  ?  Certainly  not.  But  who  might  not  have 
done  so  ?  I  should  not  have  blamed  myself.  No  indeed,  I 
should  not  have  blamed  myself  at  all.  But  I  said  to  myself, 
"  Courage,  Louis  !  This  is  a  great  day  for  you.  Do  your  duty 
well,  and  you  will  have  something  to  be  proud  of  all  the  rest 
of  your  life."  I  seemed  calm,  Monsieur.  It  might  have  been 
you  I  was  measuring,  it  might  indeed.' 

Felix  was  captivated  by  the  old  man's  transparent  pride. 
And    then,  too,  he  remembered  how  he  had    stood   before 


24  FELIX 

Balzac's  statue  at  Tours,  and  how  it  had  impressed  him  by  its 
power,  and  given  him  a  knowledge  of  his  own  ignorance. 
This  odd  meeting  in  the  snow  began  to  interest  him  and  to 
awake  his  instinct  for  romance.  But  he  felt  ashamed  of  never 
having  read  one  of  the  books  written  by  this  old  peasant's 
idol,  and  hoped  sincerely  he  would  not  be  brought  to 
acknowledge  the  fact,  which,  he  was  certain,  would  render 
him  a  contemptible  object  in  his  host's  eyes, 

'  Do  sit  down  and  tell  me  about  Balzac,  Monsieur,'  he  said. 
'  You  can't  think  how  interested  I  am.' 

At  this  moment  the  cottage  door,  which  had  been  insecurely 
latched,  opened  slightly,  showing  a  narrow  section  of  the 
outside  world  partially  veiled  by  the  softly  and  swiftly  falling 
white  flakes.  Honore  set  up  a  shrill  bark  and  ran  towards  the 
aperture.  The  tailor  hastened  to  the  door,  looked  out,  shut  it, 
cried  to  Honore,  '  To  the  hearth,  little  monster  !  What,  you 
imagine  robbers  !  There's  naught  here  to  take  except  the 
cloth.  To  the  hearth — quick,  little  devil  ! '  and  came  back  to 
Felix. 

'  Monsieur,  I  have  seen  him  writing,'  he  exclaimed,  while 
Honore  lay  down  by  Marthe,  rolled  over  on  his  side,  present- 
ing his  yellow  stomach  to  the  fire,  and  uttered  a  loud  sigh. 
'  It  was  in  the  garden  of  the  Chateau  of  Sachet  yonder.' 

He  sat  down,  grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  both  hands 
and  lowering  himself  with  a  precaution  which  made  Felix 
suddenly  realise  his  great  age. 

*  I  was  a  young  man  then,  and  the  best  tailor  in  the  country 
— out  of  Tours.  My  breeches  were  talked  of  by  the  people 
for  miles.  And  then,  too,  I  played  the  fiddle  for  the  dances 
at  the  village  fairs  and  the  weddings.  Oh,  I  was  a  gay  fellow, 
but  directly  I  took  my  shears  in  my  hand  as  grave  as  if  I  had 
never  been  out  of  a  churchyard.  For  the  tailor  who  laughs 
over  his  cloth.  Monsieur,  is  the  creator  of  scarecrows.' 
'  I  am  sure  he  is.  And  Monsieur  de  Balzac  ? ' 
'  He  used  to  stay  at  the  chateau.  Often  had  I  seen  him  in 
the  village,  walking  fast,  his  eyes  everywhere.  Such  eyes. 
Monsieur!  Brown,  and  they  noticed  everything  !  Nut  a  fowl 
ran  across  the  road  but  he  watched  the  way  it  ran.  Not  a 
turkey  poult  gobbled  but  he  stopped  to  hear  it.  The  country 
folk  thought  nothing  of  him.  They  are  uninstructed,  Mon- 
sieur. They  have  the  brains  of  hens.  If  you  carried  them 
upside  down  it  would  not  hurt  their  heads,  believe  me.  But 
I  knew  Monsieur  Balzac's  worth.  Why,  bless  my  soul,  had 
I  not  read ? ' 


FELIX  25 

'Yes,  yes,  you  were  not  like  the  others,  I  see,'  interrupted 
Felix  hastily,  fearing  a  dissertation  by  which  his  ignorance 
might  be  exposed. 

'  Indeed  I  was  not.  Monsieur.  When  I  saw  Monsieur 
Balzac  pass  my  door  I  trembled,  I  said  to  myself,  "  Think, 
Louis,  if  he  should  put  you  in  a  book  !  Bear  yourself  well. 
Mon  Dieu  !  Make  a  good  appearance  !  "  And  I  would  stand 
thus,  Monsieur,  with  my  shears  in  my  hand,  to  show  I  was 
no  idler.' 

The  old  man  got  up,  grasped  his  shears  firmly,  holding 
them  with  the  points  upward,  and  stood  by  the  table  in  an 
attitude  of  violent  industry.  He  was  unself-conscious  as  a 
child  relating  some  great  adventure. 

'  And  did  Monsieur  Balzac  notice  you  ?' 

'  He  did.  Monsieur.  One  morning — how  I  can  remember 
it  ! — I  was  making  a  coat  for  Gaspard  Vivier,  the  miller. 
He's  dead  long  ago.  He  was  too  fond  of  his  glass.  I  was 
making  him  a  coat,  and  all  of  a  sudden  something  stood  be- 
tween me  and  the  sunshine.  It  was  Monsieur  Balzac.  There 
he  stood  in  my  doorway  and  said  not  a  word.  I  saluted  him 
respectfully,  and  would  have  set  a  chair  for  him,  but  he 
shook  his  head  and  signed  to  me  to  go  on  with  my  work. 
Monsieur,  I  assure  you  I  was  all  in  a  sweat,  and  could  not 
remember  whether  it  was  the  seam  or  the  button-holes  I  was 
doing,  or  whether  indeed  I  was  not  cutting  out  the  flaps  for 
tail  pockets. — I  should  tell  you  that  Gaspard  would  always 
have  tail  pockets,  and  big  ones  too. — It  was  in  summer. 
The  sun  was  shining,  and  wherever  I  looked  I  could  see 
naught  but  Monsieur  Balzac's  shadow  on  my  floor.  Moii 
Dieu!  What  a  head  it  had,  to  be  sure!  And  no  wonder. 
The  head  of  the  shadow  was  just  by  the  legs  of  my  table.  I 
shall  never  forget  it.' 

Drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  the  old  man's  brow  above 
his  tufted  eyebrows.  He  wiped  them  away  with  the  back  of 
his  flat  thumb  and  continued  : 

'However,  I  went  on  with  the  coat,  though  what  I  did  to 
it  the  Lord  knows.  And  all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  the  head  on 
my  floor  move  away  from  the  table  leg  just  like  a  thing  run- 
ning. Then  I  dropped  my  shears  and  said  to  myself,  "  Louis, 
he  thinks  you're  a  maker  of  scarecrows.  He'll  put  you  in  a 
book,  and  he'll  put  you  in  as  a  scarecrow  maker."  I  could 
have  struck  myself.  And  that  night  I  could  not  sleep.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  voices  crying,  "Scarecrow 
maker!"   and    saw  fingers   pointing — Monsieur,  it  was  ter- 


26  FELIX 

rible  !     But '     The  tailor  had  depressed  his  whole  body 

and  hunched  his  round  shoulders  to  express  the  depth  of  his 
self-contempt  and  humiliation.  Now  he  suddenly  shot  up  to 
his  full  height — 'But,  Monsieur,  next  day  there  came  a  mes- 
sage from  the  chateau  that  I  was  to  go  up  and  measure 
Monsieur  Balzac  for  a  pair  of  breeches.' 

On  this  conclusion  the  old  man's  voice  rose  up  to  the 
voice  of  a  bird.  He  leaned  over  the  table,  put  his  two  large 
nands  on  it,  and  stared  into  the  face  of  Felix  triumphantly. 

*  A  pair  of  breeches.  Monsieur  !  '  he  repeated  loudly. 

Felix  was  carried  away  as  by  some  startling  situation  in  a 
drama.  Despite  the  sense  of  humour  which  prompted  hirn 
to  laughter,  he  felt  inclined  to  applaud.  The  old  man  had  a 
remarkable  power  of  evoking  a  scene,  Felix  had  been  in 
the  tailor's  shop,  had  seen  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  fame 
darkening  the  poor  man's  sunlight,  the  shining  shears  click- 
ing in  the  nervous  hands,  the  murder  done  on  the  miller's 
festival  coat.  And  now  the  tragedy  swept  to  this  golden 
ending.  He  felt  the  glory  like  a  warm  garment  flung  over 
him. 

'  Bravo  ! '  he  cried.     *  Bravo,  Monsieur  ! ' 

'  Monsieur,'  retorted  his  host,  *  you  are  a  brave  !  Permit 
me  to  grasp  you  by  the  hand  ! ' 

And  he  seized  Felix's  hands  in  both  his  own,  which  were 
trembling  violently. 

Felix  was  suddenly  afraid  that  his  old  age  was  paying  a 
heavy  price  for  his  triumph,  and  would  have  broken  in  upon 
his  speech  to  let  him  rest,  but  he  was  now  fully  launched. 
Only  some  natural  phenomenon,  an  earthquake,  a  water- 
spout, or  the  frenzy  of  a  storm  leaping  upon  the  cottage, 
could  have  given  him  pause. 

'  Monsieur,'  he  continued,  still  in  a  queer,  high  voice, 
'again  I  passed  a  sleepless  night.  "Merciful  heaven!"  I 
kept  on  thinking,  "if  I  should  go  wrong  with  the  tape  !  If  I 
should  squeeze  the  legs  of  Monsieur  Balzac  by  cutting  the 
breeches  too  small,  or  give  him  a  migraine  by  making  them 
too  large."  (For  I  must  inform  you.  Monsieur,  that  if  the 
legs  of  trousers  are  too  wide  at  the  bottom  the  wind  will  find 
its  way  up  them,  and,  by  causing  the  liver  to  take  cold, 
may  very  well  affect  the  head  of  a  customer.)  The  notion 
that  any  action  of  mine  might  upset  such  a  world-wise  head 
as  Monsieur  Balzac's  threw  me  almost  into  a  fever.  How 
could  I  know  that  the  trousers  were  to  have  no  feet  ?  No 
one  had  told  me.     How,  therefore,  could  I  suppose  it  ?' 


FELIX  27 

He  stopped  for  a  moment.  His  little  blue  eyes  fiercely 
demanded  a  reassuring  answer. 

*  Of  course  you  couldn't,'  Felix  said  quickly. 

'  No.  I  knew  you  would  say  so.  Well,  when  morning 
came  I  can  tell  you  I  was  in  a  fine  state,  and  when  I  set  forth 
to  the  chateau,  I  walked  like  a  man  going  to  the  guillotine. 
My  tape  was  in  my  hand,  and  I  kept  on  saying  to  myself, 
*'  Courage,  Louis,  courage  !  "  This  I  repeated  till  I  got  to  the 
chateau.  And  there  they  said  to  me,  "  Go  into  the  garden, 
Louis.  Monsieur  Balzac  is  in  the  garden  writing."  "  Writ- 
ing !  "  I  said.  "  Then  let  me  go  home.  If  Monsieur  is  writ- 
ing  "     "  No,  no,  you  are  to  go  into  the  garden.     And  mind 

you  are  quick  with  the  trousers.  Monsieur  Balzac  is  in  a 
great  hurry  for  them."  Monsieur,  I  went  into  the  garden, 
and  there,  away  to  the  left,  just  where  the  ground  dips,  under 
a  tree,  sat  Monsieur  Balzac' 

The  old  man  paused.  He  seemed  overcome  by  his  recollec- 
tions. The  fire  and  almost  intemperate  vivacity  in  his  small 
blue  eyes  died  out  slowly.  He  stared  as  if  he  watched  some- 
thing deeply  interesting. 

*  Monsieur,  it  was  true,  he  was  writing.  There  was  much 
sun  that  day,  but  he  sat  just  in  the  shade  and  could  look  out 
over  the  garden.  On  his  right  hand  was  a  little  table,  smaller 
than  mine.  It  was  all  covered  with  paper.  Monsieur  Balzac 
was  not  sitting  before  it  like  another  man  would.     No,  no  ! ' 

'But  how  did  he  sit,  then  ?' 

'  Like  this.' 

The  old  man  eagerly  pulled  his  chair  forward  till  it  was 
beyond  the  table,  stretched  his  right  arm  back  till  his  hand 
reached  the  table,  and  made  a  violent  motion  of  writing. 

*  That  was  how  he  wrote  ? ' 

*And  he  never  looked  at  the  paper.  Monsieur.  All  the 
time  he  wrote  he  stared  at  the  garden  like  this,  as  if  he  saw 
people  walking  in  it.' 

The  tailor  glanced  wildly  about  the  room,  like  one  watch- 
ing the  movement  of  a  live  thing  between  his  chair  and  the 
wood  fire.  While  he  did  so  he  continued  to  agitate  his  hand 
furiously  upon  the  table.  His  long  nails  made  a  dry,  tap- 
ping sound. 

'  That  was  how  he  wrote,  without  ever  looking  at  the  paper. 
Monsieur,  he  could  see  his  people  all  about  the  garden.  His 
eyes  were  so  wide  open  they  were  terrible.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  I  did  not  dare  to  interrupt  him,  but  he  caught 
sight  of  me  standing  there,  like  a  dog  that  is  ready  to  run  all 


28  FELIX 

ways  from  fright,  and  beckoned  me  to  come  nearer.  I  came, 
grasping  my  tape  and  still  repeating  to  myself,  "Courage, 
Louis,  courage  !  "  Well,  Monsieur,  I  had  to  make  haste,  I 
can  tell  you.  He  stood  up  with  the  pen  in  his  hand,  and  then 
it  was  that  I  measured  him — the  greatest  man  of  France.' 

'  And  did  he  say  anything  to  you  ?' 

When  I  had  measured  him  I  would  have  shown  him  some 
of  my  samples.  I  thought  he  would  wish  to  choose  a  mater- 
ial. But  no,  he  would  not  look  at  them.  *'  Something  warm  " 
was  all  he  said.  And  then.  Monsieur,  he  added  that  they 
were  on  no  account  to  have  any  feet, 

'  But  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? ' 

'  They  were  to  have  no  openings  at  the  bottom  for  the  feet 
to  go  through,  but  were  to  be  closed  quite  up  like  two  sacks. 
I  could  not  understand  it,  but  I  did  not  venture  to  say  a  word 
except,  "As  Monsieur  wishes!  As  Monsieur  desires!" 
How  I  was  going  to  make  them  I  could  not  tell  at  all.  But  I 
bore  myself  as  if  I  had  already  made  many  trousers  without 
feet  for  all  the  countryside,  and  was  in  no  way  disturbed. 
When  I  was  going  I  bowed  profoundly.  But,  Monsieur,  I 
was  so  distracted  that  I  forgot  my  tape.  Think  of  that  I  I 
lift  it  lying  on  the  table,  where  I  had  put  it  down  in  my  agi- 
tation. I  did  not  find  this  out  until  I  had  reached  the  ter- 
race, and  then ' 

He  paused,  shook  his  head  several  times,  and  made  a 
clicking  sound  with  his  tongue  against  his  lips. 

'  You  went  back  for  it  ? ' 

■'  Monsieur,  I  did,  on  my  toe-tips.  Monsieur  Balzac  was 
aga^n  writing  and  staring  at  the  garden.  I  crept  up  behind 
the  table,  as  a  rat  creeps  to  food  in  the  kitchen  when  the  cook 
is  by.  My  tape  lay  under  a  sheet  of  paper.  For  a  moment 
I  did  not  dare  to  take  it.  My  hand  was  trembling.  But 
Monsieur  Balzac  did  not  seem  to  see  me.  At  length  I 
stretched  out  my  hand  and  seized  my  tape.  But  the  sheet  of 
paper  rustled,  and  suddenly  Monsieur  Balzac  looked  round. 
There  were  great  lines  all  across  his  forehead,  and  his  eyes 
were  bloodshot.     Then,  Monsieur,  I— I  ran  as  the  hare  runs.' 

'  You  ran  away  ? ' 

'To  my  shame.  Monsieur,  I  did.  But  I  made  the  trousers. 
They  had  no  feet,  and  Monsieur  Balzac  always  wore  them  at 
night  when  he  was  writing.  That  was  what  he  wanted  them 
for.  He  did  not  wish  to  put  on  shoes,  and  when  he  got  up  at 
midnight  he  would  slip  at  once  into  my  trousers  with  only 
his  stockings  on.     And  when  he  passed  through  the  village 


FELIX  29 

afterwards  he  would  always  nod  to  me,  and  sometimes  he 
would  say  "  Good-morning  ".' 

The  tailor  was  silent,  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
drew  from  beneath  his  blouse  an  enormous  cotton  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  blew  his  nose  sonorously.  Then  he  turned 
towards  the  bookshelf. 

*  There  I  have  all  his  books,  Monsieur.  As  Monsieur  Bal- 
zac's tailor,  it  is  right  that  I  should  have  them,  is  it  not  ? ' 

'  Quite  right,'  said  Felix. 

It  was  beginning  to  grow  rather  dark  in  the  room,  and  such 
illumination  as  there  was  came  rather  from  the  flames  of  the 
fire  than  from  the  dying  daylight  at  the  window.  Felix 
glanced  towards  the  bookshelf.  The  long  line  of  books, 
whose  dark-green  backs  now  began  to  look  almost  black, 
fascinated  him.  He  thought  of  the  rugged  statue  of  the  man 
whose  brain  and  whose  soul  were  bound  up  in  them. 

'  You  have  read  them  all  ? '  he  said. 

*  All,  Monsieur.' 

The  old  man  went  up  to  the  shelf,  gazed  at  his  treasures 
with  romantic  eyes  for  a  moment,  then  returned  and  stood 
before  the  hearth  close  to  the  little  Honore,  who  was  snoring 
faintly  with  wide-open  eyes.  His  small  and  spare  figure  was 
lit  up  by  the  wood  fire  behind  him.  He  stood  with  his  feet 
wide  apart,  holding  up  his  blouse  with  his  veined  hands,  and 
in  the  triangle  formed  by  his  legs  and  the  floor  Felix  saw  the 
golden  and  red  flames  playing  round  the  logs  which,  in  places, 
were  charred  and  grey.  One  solitary  and  small  flame  was 
pale  blue.  It  hissed  faintly.  A  little,  thin  jet  of  smoke,  like 
a  feather,  rose  behind  it.  Marthe  was  still  hunched  up  on 
the  hearth,  gazing  sourly  at  the  fire  with  her  spotted  eyes. 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  in  it  Felix  suddenly 
realised  the  isolation  in  which  the  cottage  stood,  the  dim 
forest  all  round  it,  the  softly  falling  snow.  When  the  old 
man  stopped  speaking  the  quiet  was  intense.  Felix  felt  as 
if  he  and  the  tailor  were  two  figures  in  an  old  picture,  a 
picture  in  which  the  flames  defined  the  edges  of  mystery, 
and  the  black  shadows  were  dramatic,  seeming  to  reveal  as 
well  as  to  hide.  And  with  them,  in  this  old  picture,  was 
surely  the  spirit  of  the  statue  of  Tours  It  seemed  to  the 
boy  suddenly  as  if  the  tailor's  acquaintance  with  Balzac 
were  his  acquaintance  also,  as  if  he  had  seen  the  bloodshot 
eyes  roaming  over  the  garden,  following  the  activities  of  the 
brain-creatures  in  the  strong  sunshine  of  France.  He 
glanced  again  at  the  line  of  books,  and  was  filled  with   a 


30  FELIX 

violent  longing  to  read  them.     The  old  man    followed    his 
eyes. 

'  Monsieur,'  he  said,  '  after  I  had  seen  Monsieur  Balzac, 
those  books  drove  me  from  my  village  to  Paris.  I  was  seized 
with  a  restlessness  that  was,  I  assure  you  like  a  devil  within 
me,  I  kept  thinking,  "  Shall  one  man  know  everything, 
another  nothing  ?"  Sachet  became  horrible  to  me.  Then, 
too,  I  thought  the  man  who  is  good  enough  to  be  the  tailor 
of  Balzac  is  surely  good  enough  to  make  trousers  for  any 
one  in  Paris.  I  shut  up  my  shop  and  I  started  for  Tours. 
From  there  I  went  to  Paris/ 

'  And  how  did  you  get  on  there  ? ' 

'  Monsieur,  I  almost  starved.  In  Paris  they  did  not  want 
me.  When  I  explained  that  I  was  Balzac's  tailor  they 
laughed  at  me.  I  made  some  trousers  for  one  or  two,  but. 
Monsieur,  they  did  not  give  complete  satisfaction.  I  cannot 
tell  why.  To  me  they  seemed  well  cut.  The  material  was 
stout  and  good.  Still  they  were  not  to  the  taste  of  Paris. 
At  length  I  had  no  money.  I  had  no  customers.  I  was 
obliged  to  return.  I  was  ashamed  too,  for,  in  going,  I  had 
said  to  everybody,  to  all  the  village.  Monsieur,  that  I  should 
make  my  fortune  in  Paris.  I  feared  the  laughter  of  the 
hen-brained,  Monsieur,  it  was  poor-spirited  of  me,  and  I 
came  to  live  away  from  them  in  this  cottage,  which  was 
once  a  wood-cutter's.  That  is  many  years  ago,  and  the 
people  round  are  glad  now  to  have  their  clothes  from  me, 
and  have  ceased  to  laugh  at  me  for  going  to  Paris.  But  I 
stay  here.  When  I  am  alone  here  I  sometimes  read  my 
books,  and  then  I  see  again  the  streets  of  Paris  and  hear 
the  voices  of  Paris.  Ah,  Monsieur,  it  is  in  great  cities  that 
the  heart  beats  strongly  and  the  brain  is  full  of  thoughts. 
Here,  in  the  forest,  there  is  nothing  but  the  trees  and  the 
silence.* 

He  went  over  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  letting  the  edge 
of  his  blouse  drop. 

'  Look,  Monsieur  !     Listen  !  ' 

He  stood  away  a  little  from  the  door  to.  let  Felix  see.  The 
afternoon  was  fading  into  evening,  and  the  square  vision  of 
the  forest  without  was  extraordinarily  wan  and  ghostly. 
The  trees  looked  soft  and  thin,  languid  under  the  cruel 
attack  of  the  new  weather.  A  wind  was  rising  as  the  day 
died.  The  white  flakes  spun  in  it  across  the  aperture  of  the 
door,  and  in  the  combination  of  the  rapid  movement  and  the 
utter  soundlessness  of  them  there  was  something  peculiarly 


FELIX  31 

uneasy  and  desolate.  One  or  two  shafts  of  reddish-yellow 
light  from  the  fire  pointed  across  the  brick  floor  to  them 
like  fingers.  And  the  moist  and  frigid  breath  of  the  forest 
penetrated  through  them  slowly,  like  a  sad  live  thing,  striv- 
ing to  edge  its  way  among  a, multitude  of  tiny,  but  obstinate 
enemies  towards  happiness.  In  the  shadow  by  the  door 
stood  the  bent  form  of  the  tailor  peering  out. 

*  Nothing  but  the  trees  and  the  silence.  Monsieur,'  he  re- 
peated. '  Nothing  but  that.  And  yet,  far  away,  what  a 
world  there  is  !     Mofi  Dieu  !' 

He  shut  the  door  sharply,  crossed  the  floor  rapidly  to  the 
bookshelf — his  big  shoes  clattering  on  the  bricks — took  down 
a  volume,  opened  it,  and  thrust  it  into  Felix's  hand. 

'There!  there  !' he  exclaimed,  and  again  there  was  the 
bird's  note  in  his  voice.  'Think  of  it  all.  Monsieur  !  Think 
of  it  all  ! ' 

Felix  looked  into  the  book.  The  title  of  it  was  Illusions 
Perdues, 

He  read  a  page  and  then  another.  He  forgot  the  forest, 
the  snow,  the  darkness  coming  on,  the  old  man  regarding 
him  attentively  from  the  fire. 

In  his  ears  there  was  no  longer  silence,  but  the  hoarse 
roar  of  the  huge  and  flowing  tides  of  life. 


CHAPTER   III 

FROM  the  day  of  his  visit  to  the  cottage  in  the  forest  Felix  was 
conscious  of  a  change  within  him.  Something  in  his  nature 
which  had  been  sleeping  woke.  He  could  scarcely  have  named 
it  even  to  himself.  It  was,  perhaps,  as  if  his  ears,  formerly  deaf, 
had  been  partially  unsealed,  and  now  heard  for  the  first  time 
clearly  the  deep  and  strong  pulsation  in  the  heart  of  life.  He 
began  to  listen  to  it  with  an  attention  that  was  passionate,  and 
to  wonder  whether,  as  he  grew  older,  it  would  seem  to  beat  more 
powerfully.  Looking  backward  over  his  few  years  in  the  world, 
he  was  able  to  recall  two  or  three  occasions  when  he  had  per- 
haps heard  this  significant  and  central  sound,  but  so  dimly  that 
it  was  more  like  an  echo  than  a  voice,  more  like  the  music  of  an 
imagination  than  the  music  of  a  great  truth.  One  of  these 
occasions  was  the  funeral  of  his  father,  when  for  a  moment  he 
hid  almost  forgotten  his  grief  in  anger  at  the  faulty  performance 
of  the  village  choir.  Another  had  found  him  alone  upon  the 
bridge  at  Tours,  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  river  beneath 
the  arches,  and  to  the  wail  of  the  band  upon  the  island.  On  a 
third  he  had  gazed  in  the  night  at  the  statue  of  Balzac. 

He  came  back  through  the  snow  from  the  tailor's  cottage  with 
one  of  the  green  volumes,  carefully  wrapped  in  a  remnant  of 
cloth,  in  his  hand.  It  was  La  Cousine  Bette,  selected  by  him  at 
hazard  as  the  volume  of  initiation.  The  tailor  had  begg-d  Felix 
to  enter  at  once  into  a  close  acquaintance  with  his  idol,  and  had 
shown  an  almost  childish  and  very  simple  pride  in  being  able  to 
confer  so  memorable  an  honour  as  introduction  upon  his  grate- 
ful guest.  All  the  way  home  through  the  forest  Felix  had  heard 
ringing  in  his  ears  the  words  of  the  ardent  old  fellow,  '  Shall 
one  man  know  everything  and  another  nothing?  '  He  believed 
that  he  had  drawn  very  close  to  that  cry  of  the  ignoiant  heart  in 
the  night  beside  the  statue  at  Tours,  and  he  wondered  whether 
he  would  always  repeat  the  feelings  and  desires  of  others, 
whether  it  were  possible  to  do  anything  else  even  once  in  a 
lifetime.     He  could  not  tell.     He  could  not  tell  anything.     And 

82 


FELIX  S3 

he  felt  burdened,  crushed  by  his  new  knowledge  of  his  vast  and 
echoing  ignorance. 

When  he  reached  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  Grand'mere  had 
gone  to  bed.  Her  chill  had  weakened  her,  and  the  evil  change 
in  the  weather  had  had  a  bad  effect  upon  her  condition.  He 
went  upstairs,  found  her  drinking  tea,  which  she  never  took  but 
as  a  medicine,  bade  her  good-night  and  came  down  to  a  lonely 
evening.  The  wind  continued  to  rise,  as  if  stirred  to  action  by 
the  obstinate  falling  of  the  snow.  After  dinner  Felix  drew  his 
chair  to  the  fire  in  the  little  drawing-room  and,  observed  by  the 
photographs  of  Grand'mere's  whiskered  husband  and  two  bland 
daughters  in  garden  hats,  saw  the  curtain  go  up  on  La  Comedie 
Humaine.  Just  before  he  went  to  bed,  at  an  early  hour  of  the 
morning,  he  looked  out  into  the  garden.  It  was  covered  with 
snow.  The  wind  whistled  over  it.  He  felt  as  if  the  snow,  and 
the  wind,  and  this  prospect  empty  of  houses  were  a  dream,  as  if 
Paris  were  the  only  reality. 

In  his  quiet  home  life  at  Churston  Waters  Felix  had  been 
happy.  He  had  enjoyed  his  schooldays  well  enough.  His 
summer  in  France  had  brought  with  it  new  and  delightful 
sensations,  a  feeling  of  emancipation,  of  being  out  in  the  world, 
of  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  lifetime  and  looking  towards  long 
vistas  of  experience.  But  hitherto  fate  had  set  herself  to 
encourage  rather  the  simplicity  that  was  in  him  than  the  subtlety. 
His  mother  and  sister  were  simple  people,  natural  in  their 
habits,  their  desires,  their  expression  of  them.  The  sweet  calm 
of  the  country  enveloped  and  influenced  their  souls.  They 
moved  in  it  as  in  their  appropriate  element.  And  Felix  had 
always  felt  truly  at  home  with  them,  although  his  temperament 
was  different  from  theirs.  He,  too,  had  an  ardent  love  for 
nature.  Without  analysing  the  fine  sanity  of  nature  he  had 
drawn  that  sanity  freely  into  his  soul  as  a  man  draws  the  pure 
air  of  sea  or  mountains  into  his  lungs.  He  was,  so  far,  whole- 
some-minded and  wholesome-bodied.  But  he  was  secretly  more 
impetuous  than  he  knew.  From  this  secret  impetuosity  came 
his  curious  and  apparently  unreasonable  melancholies  and  his 
tendency  to  exaggeration.  Till  now,  circumstances  had,  upon 
the  whole,  been  sedative  in  his  life.  The  chime  of  his  mother's 
influence  had  rung  to  him  with  the  chime  of  the  church  bells, 
yet  without  depressing  him  as  they  did.  Her  quiet  piety  and 
unwavering  belief  in  things  unseen,  her  appreciation  of  and 
trust  in  the  goodness  and  honesty  of  those  about  her,  had  been 
so  constant  that  they  had  seemed  to  her  children  rather  main 
attributes  of  humanity  than  qualities  peculiar  to  her.  Public 
C 


34  FELIX 

school  life  had  not  shattered  the  fine  image  of  man  she  had  set 
up  in  the  heart  of  Felix.  The  brotherhood  of  boys  in  England 
is  usually  a  brotherhood  of  frankness,  creating  hardihood  rather 
than  hardness,  breeding  a  quick  reliance  rather  than  a  slow 
mistrust. 

La  Comedie  Humame  set  Felix  face  to  face  with  an  undreamed- 
of world,  with  a  world  whose  tragic  fires  lit  up  the  whole  arena 
of  his  imagination.  And  the  place  in  which  he  came  to  know 
these  crowds  of  aident  people,  these  fiercely  striving  and  pas- 
sionately greedy  financiers  and  journalists,  these  envious  poli- 
ticians and  thirsty  poets,  these  cocottes  devouring  society,  and 
patient,  betrayed  women,  whose  very  virtue  was  often  sad  as  an 
epitaph  upon  a  tomb,  assisted,  by  its  unwavering  peace,  their 
violent  effect  upon  his  mind.  At  first  he  was  shaken  by  their 
intensity,  and  almost  appalled  by  their  activity  in  deeds.  Their 
extraordinary  and  persistent  energy  seemed  to  him  as  engrossing 
as  the  feats  of  a  superb  acrobat,  but  scarcely  more  normal.  He 
had  never  met  such  human  beings,  and,  in  the  beginning  of  his 
acquaintance  with  the  great  comedy,  he  doubted  whether  they 
ever  had  been  met  with  by  any  one.  But  by  degrees  he  was  con- 
quered by  the  genius  of  the  author  and  acknowledged  silently 
that  such  people  had  lived,  were  living  now.  He  was  convinced. 
He  felt  'in  his  bones'  that  though  this  might  not  be  truth  as  he 
knew  it,  yet  it  was  truth. 

When  he  had  come  to  this  conviction  he  was  enormously 
stirred.  Great  literature  seldom  puts  into  us  what  we  do  not 
possess  already,  but  it  very  often  wakes  that  which  is  latent 
within  us.  In  Felix  it  woke  a  sudden  passion  for  the  life  of 
cities,  for  the  tumult  of  a  crowded  existence,  for  the  ardour  of 
striving  wills,  for  the  melancholies  and  the  joys  of  the  streets. 
When  the  spring  came  again  to  the  garden  province,  and  the 
airs  were  once  more  gentle,  he  often  retreated  into  the  ruined 
chapel  with  one  of  the  green  volumes  which  the  tailor  was  so 
ready  to  lend.  He  had  carried  a  garden-chair  there,  and  in  the 
shadow  of  the  crumbling,  moss-grown  walls  he  read  for  hours. 
The  pale  sunbeams  of  the  budding  year  lay  sometimes  across 
his  page.  Tiny  insects  moved  mysteriously  through  then-  jungle 
of  shaking  creepers  above  his  head.  A  bird  alighted  on  a 
pointed  stone  in  the  arch  of  a  shattered  window,  watched  the 
student  with  round,  shining  eyes,  tipped  its  tail  at  him  im- 
pertinently, and  flew  away.  The  sound  of  the  distant  Angelus 
bell  came  up  the  valley  to  him  faintly,  hinting  that  there  was  a 
calm  God  above  all  these  raging  men,  in  whose  strange  lives  he 
was  plunged,  whose  crimes  and  passions  he  watched  as  through 


FELIX  35 

a  microscope.  Sometimes  Felix  did  not  hear  it.  Sometimes  he 
heard  it  and  shivered.  One  day  he  asked  himself  why  this 
voice  of  the  bell  seemed  to  him  frightful,  penetrating,  like  a 
silver  ray,  through  the  red  and  dusky  fire  of  the  lights  of  Paris, 
why  this  thought  of  a  God  watching  over  the  world  struck 
through  his  heart  like  the  cold  blade  of  a  dagger.  But  he  did 
not  find  the  answer  to  his  question.  And  again  he  bent  over 
the  page. 

He  and  the  little  tailor  had  become  great  friends,  and  Honore 
no  longer  barked  when  he  heard  Felix's  step  upon  the  narrow 
path  in  the  forest.  Felix  often  sat  by  the  table  watching  the 
old  man's  large  hands,  furrowed  and  twisted  with  age,  busy  with 
the  cloth,  cutting  out,  sewing,  patching.  He  grew  to  look  upon 
the  tailor  with  a  curious  interest  that  was  almost  reverential, 
thinking  of  him  often  as  one  of  Balzac's  characters  set  before 
him  in  the  flesh.  For  must  not  this  creator  of  a  gigantic  popula- 
tion, this  mighty  painter  of  crowds,  have  seized  upon  all  those 
whom  he  met  and  compelled  them  to  be  his  models?  Felix 
often  questioned  the  tailor  about  his  life  in  Paris,  and  the  tailor, 
whom  conversation  almost  intoxicated,  launched  forth  with 
fervour  on  this  congenial  subject.  Felix  mentally  compared  his 
account  of  the  city  with  the  many  accounts  of  it  given  in  the 
Comedie  Humaine.  Despite  the  fact  that  it  was  the  place  of  his 
starvation  and  most  utter  misery  and  loneliness,  the  tailor  wor- 
shipped Paris  and  could  never  speak  of  it  but  with  ecstasy. 
Again,  in  his  talk,  Felix  felt  the  strange  attraction  of  crowds 
and  of  the  infinite  possibilities  of  adventure  that  lurk  in  cities. 
In  London  he  thought,  or  in  Paris,  each  morning  brings  its 
exciting  vagueness,  a  vagueness  alive  with  conjecture.  And 
each  night — what  do  the  nights  bring? 

The  tailor's  life  in  Paris  had  been  scarcely  romantic.  He  had 
lived  wretchedly  amid  squalid  surroundings,  had  toiled  at  his 
trade,  and,  too  often,  had  failed  to  find  the  customers  he  so 
energetically  sought.  He  had  known  scarcely  any  one,  or  had 
any  gaiety  or  pleasure  even  of  the  poorest  and  most  humble 
kind.  But,  in  narrative,  uplifted  by  an  imagination  almost 
Gascon,  he  managed  to  place  his  poor  existence  among  romantic 
lights  and  to  surround  it  with  a  certain  glamour  of  excitement. 
And  had  he  failed  to  do  this,  Felix,  steeped  in  the  genius  of 
Balzac,  would  have  done  it  for  him.  The  lonely  cottage  often 
held  strange  colloquies.  The  clicking  of  the  great  shears  made 
an  accom;)animent  to  the  long  solos  of  the  tailor  and  the  soft 
purring  of  Marthe  and  the  thin  snore  of  the  little  Honord, 
mingled  with  the  questions  and  the  tirades  of  Felix,  who  often 


36  FELIX 

got  excited,  and  poured  forth  from  the  depths  of  his  complete 
ignorance  rhapsodies  on  life  in  the  great  world. 

Meanwhile  calm  nature  was  developing  in  the  forest  all 
round  the  two  enthusiasts.  The  pale  smile  of  little  leaves  ran 
over  the  faces  of  the  trees.  Among  the  mosses,  damp  with  the 
tender  dew  of  spring  mornings,  tiny  flowers  appeared,  lifting 
cups  of  the  softest  colours  toward  the  delicate  skies  that  arch 
the  youthful  year.  Blithe  blades  of  grass  pushed  up  in  the 
shadowy  glades  and  in  the  clearing  before  the  tailor's  house. 
In  the  nights  delicious  showers  fell  like  benedictions,  and  the 
bright  mornings  brought  with  them  a  harvest  of  sunbeams 
which  waked  in  all  the  birds  the  strong  spirit  of  utterance. 
They  sang  on  and  on  till  it  seemed  as  if  only  ia  silence  could 
they  ever  know  fatigue. 

Felix  scarcely  noticed  the  spring  this  year.  His  mind  was 
fermenting,  and  he  looked  inwards  upon  himself,  seeking  him- 
self, striving  to  find  himself  among  the  hurrying  figures  of  the 
Comedie  Humaine.  Which  of  their  passions  were  his  also? 
Which  of  their  desires  flamed  in  his  soul?  Which  of  their 
loves  would  one  day  be  his  ?  With  what  type  of  man  or 
woman  was  he  most  earnestly  in  sympathy?  He  continually 
asked  himself  these  questions,  and  he  thought  that  when  he 
could  give  an  honest  answer  to  the  last  he  would  be  nearer  to 
a  right  knowledge  of  himself  than  he  had  ever  been.  But  as 
yet  he  had  not  been  able  to  give  this  answer.  His  sympathies 
changed  and  flowed  this  way  and  that,  now  circling  about  one 
character,  now  about  another.  Sometimes  he  was  amazed  to 
perceive  how  great  was  his  power  of  forgiveness,  how  difficult 
he  found  it  to  condemn.  He  had  never  chanced  to  hear  the 
saying  that  to  know  all  is  to  pardon  all,  but  the  truth  that  lies 
behind  it  rose  up  spontaneously  within  him.  Yet,  is  not  the  man 
who  is  constitutionally  unable  to  condemn  the  human  being 
who  does  a  base  act  unrepentantly  of  necessity  a  weakling  and 
unworthy? 

Felix  debated  this  question  many  times  in  reference  to  one 
of  Balzac's  characters,  the  Baron  Hulot. 

This  man,  and  the  frightful  ruthlessness  with  which  the 
author  presented  him,  fascinated  Felix.  He  followed  that 
libertine  career  with  an  excitement  which  almost  frightened 
him,  and  when  the  last  sordid,  coarse,  and  brutal  act  was  accom- 
plished, and  on  the  eyelid  of  the  heroic  dead  woman,  who  had 
been  a  martyr  to  her  husband's  ruling  passion,  glittered  a  tear, 
— the  tear  she  had  not  shed  in  living — Felix  was  conscious  of 
an  exultant  sensation.     This  exultation  was  caused,  he  felt,  not 


FELIX  87 

only  by  the  grim  and  ferocious  genius  of  the  writer,  but  by  the 
completeness  of  the  man  written  about,  by  his  supreme  inability 
to  change.  He  could  not  behave  decently.  Had  he  been 
translated  to  the  Heavenly  City,  he  would  have  wandered 
through  its  streets  seeking  the  attic  chamber  of  a  soubrette. 
There  was  something  triumphant  in  such  persistence  of  evil 
in  a  human  soul,  something  almost  sublime  in  this  powerless- 
ness  to  stop  short,  to  become  different,  to  be  influenced. 

One  day,  when  he  had  been  saying  this  to  himself,  Felix 
suddenly  thought  of  his  mother. 

Her  face,  and  the  grey  hair  that  crowned  it,  her  large,  gentle 
eyes  that  could  not  look  unkind,  rose  up  before  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  gazed  on  her  for  the  first  time  with  a 
consciously  appraising  glance,  as  a  man  may  examine  a  stranger, 
closely,  importunately.  Balzac  was  teaching  him  to  analyse 
human  beings,  and  he  began  by  trying  to  analyse  his  own 
mother.  That  seemed  cruel.  But  he  was  rapidly  passing  into 
a  mental  region  in  which  cruelty  had  a  very  definite  and  almost 
honoured  place.  In  thinking  thus  closely  and  analytically  of 
his  mother  the  first  thing  that  struck  Felix  was  how  very  little 
she  knew  of  life.  He  compared  her  quiet  existence  with  many 
of  the  existences  in  the  Cotn'edie  Huniaine,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  had  never  truly  lived  at  all.  She  had  never  been 
out  into  the  great  world,  mingled  with  its  drama,  looked  upon 
its  fierce  griefs  and  fiercer  pleasures,  shared  its  voracious 
passions.  No ;  she  had  seen  the  quiet  years  go  by  in  the 
house  upon  the  hill,  had  listened  at  her  window  to  the  chiming 
of  the  church  bells,  had  talked  with  the  country  neighbours, 
whose  limitations  Felix  now  began  to  perceive  with  piercing 
keenness. 

How  would  she  look  upon  the  sinners  in  the  wild  comedy  of 
life? 

Hitherto  Felix  had  been  accustomed  to  listen  to  his  mother's 
advice  with  a  certain  reverence  and  generally  to  accept  it, 
relying  upon  the  instruction  which  he  had  supposed  inevitably 
to  walk  hand  in  hand  with  age.  He  now  felt  sure  that  he  had 
made  a  gross  mistake  in  supposing  that  anything  of  that  kind 
is  inevitable.  A  boy  of  sixteen  may  know  far  more  about  life 
than  a  woman  of  sixty.  One  thing  was  certain.  His  mother 
could  know  scarcely  anything.  Her  ignorance  must  really  be 
profound.  He  felt  himself  pitying  her.  Presently  he  began  to 
wonder  whether  she  had  any  idea  how  ignorant  she  was, 
whether  she  regretted  it,  whether  she  had  ever,  as  a  girl  or  as  a 
quite  young  married  woman,  wished  to  know  the  truth  of  life, 


38  FELIX 

or  whether  she  had  consciously  shrunk  from  such  knowledge. 
And  then  he  remembered  remarks  he  had  heard  her  make, 
which  showed  that  she  considered  it  the  duty  of  a  good  woman 
to  reject  much  knowledge ;  for  instance :  '  There  are  many 
things  one  does  not  wish  to  know,'  and  '  It  is  much  better  not 
to  know  that  certain  things  exist,'  Once  he  had  been  thought- 
lessly ready  to  agree  with  her.  He  felt  sure  that  he  would  not 
be  able  to  in  future.  At  this  stage  in  his  life  it  seemed  to  him 
that  to  see  the  truth  of  everything  quite  clearly  was  vitally 
important,  was  indeed  the  first  duty  of  a  real  man  or  woman 
who  declined  to  be  a  shadow.  Thinking  thus,  he  wondered 
whether,  when  they  met  again,  he  would  not  be  obliged  to  put 
his  view  of  this  matter  before  his  mother  in  opposition  to  hers. 
The  idea  of  doing  this  excited  him,  and  he  often  turned  it  over 
in  his  mind,  imagining  scenes  in  which  he  brilliantly  combated 
the  objections  which  came  flowing  freely  from  her  limited 
appreciation  of  the  root-facts  of  humanity.  How  she  believed 
in  people  and  how  she  believed  in  God  !  He  began  to  try  to 
dissect  these  two  allied  beliefs,  and  asked  himself  which  was 
the  child  and  which  the  parent.  No  doubt  she  saw  God's 
image  in  her  acquaintance.  Had  she  numbered  the  Baron 
Hulot  among  them,  would  she  have  found  it  also  in  him? 
Felix  smiled  at  the  thought. 

He  naturally  employed  what  he  supposed  to  be  his  now 
carefully  sharpened  and  finely  tempered  faculty  of  observation 
in  his  daily  life.  Grand'mere  was  committed  by  fate  to  his 
dissection.  He  set  to  work  upon  her  with  extraordinary  vivacity 
and  self-confidence. 

She  was  a  sweet  old  woman  of  whose  past  life  Felix  knew 
but  very  little.  She  had  been  born  and  educated  in  Russia, 
had  eventually  married  a  rich  merchant,  a  Frenchman,  who 
was  living  in  Petersburg,  had  come  with  him  to  France  and 
settled  in  a  fine  chateau  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  had  given 
him  two  children.  So  much  of  fact  Felix  knew.  He  also  knew 
that  Monsieur  Bernard  had  eventually  lost  nearly  all  his  money 
and  died,  that  Madame  Bernard  had  been  forced  to  leave  the 
chateau  and  retire  to  La  Maison  des  Aloutttes,  where,  ever  since, 
she  had  eked  out  her  painfully  modest  income  by  receiving — 
well,  in  fact,  Felixes.  Madame  Bernard  was  now  sixty-two. 
Her  face  was  brown,  puckered,  lit  by  brilliant,  almost  black 
eyes,  and  framed  in  quantities  of  snow-white  hair  on  which  she 
never  placed  a  cap.  She  preserved  a  very  great  vivacity  and  a 
captivating  air  of  youth.  Her  energy  was  abnormal.  She  cooked, 
gardened,  marketed,  gave  French  lessons,  in  summer  walked  every 


FELIX  39 

morning  to  the  river,  and  ducked  herself  bravely  in  the  shallow 
water  under  the  shadow  of  the  rushes.  Her  manners  were 
frank  and  full  of  delightful  homeliness  touched  with  something 
spiritual.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  obsjivant,  motherly, 
fearless,  even  when  it  was  sad.  Every  one  liked  her.  Felix 
almost  loved  her.     But  he  began  to  dissect  her. 

He  who  takes  the  scalpel  to  the  corpse  feels  very  superior 
to  the  corpse.  Felix  soon  began  to  feel  very  superior  to 
Grand'mere.  He  was  too  gentlemanly  a  boy  to  show  it  in- 
tentionally. It  is  certain  that  he  must  have  wished  to  conceal 
it.  But  Grand'mere  was  after  all  a  Frenchwoman  and  had 
her  little  intuitions.  She  was  mightily  amused  by  the  change 
she  noted  in  her  guest,  the  new  relation  that  began  to  exist 
between  herself  and  him.  It  woke  her  up  like  a  flirtation 
and  seemed  to  set  a  late  lark  singing  in  the  twilight  of  her 
nature.  From  the  throne  of  her  age  and  many  sorrows  she 
bent  down  to  play  with  Felix.  While  he  was  trying  to  dissect 
her,  she  was  metaphorically  dancing  round  him.  She  saw  the 
scalpel,  but  he  did  not  see  the  dance,  so  her  secret  gaiety 
encountered  continually  his  public  seriousness,  and  La  Maison 
des  Alouettes  held  for  a  time  a  quite  excellent  little  comedy, 
in  which,  if  he  had  but  known  it,  Felix  came  off  second  best. 

The  result  of  his  dissection  of  Grand'mere,  which  was  no 
dissection,  was  that,  after  a  time,  Felix  put  down  the  scalpel, 
ticketed  the  corpse,  and  laid  it  solemnly  away,  while  Grand'- 
mere was  laughing  in  her  corner. 

'Woman.  Old.  Kind-hearted.  Amusing.  Knows  little  of 
life.  Easily  contented.  Enjoys  trifles.  Never  thinks  of  the 
great  problems  by  which  w^e  are  all  surrounded.  Is  engrossed  by 
the  small  things  of  the  day.  No  reader  of  character  because 
she  always  looks  on  the  bright  side  of  things.  Has  little  idea 
what  the  world  is  like.  Probably  never  thinks  about  it.  A 
good  cook.  A  delightful  hostess.  As  fond  of  cold  water  as 
an  Englishwoman.     A  perfect  grand'mere.' 

Something  like  that  was  Felix's  secret  report  upon  the  corpse. 
And  yet  he  was  not  a  fool.  He  was  only  a  boy  whom  life  had 
not  had  time  to  educate  and  who  thought  he  was  educated; 
something  like  the  learned  man  who  lives  between  book-covers 
and  pronounces  judgment  on  the  nations  and  the  spheres. 

If  he  could  have  seen  into  Grand'mere's  heart,  if  he  could 
have  wandered  for  a  moment  in  her  mind — say  when  she  lay 
sleepless  under  the  faded  red  canopy  of  her  bed  at  night ;  if 
he  rould  have  heard  the  prayers  she  said  to  the  Virtan,  the 
confession  she  made  to  the  cure  of  Artannes;  if  he  could  have 


40  FELIX 

followed,  with  silent  foot,  her  dreams  waking  or  sleeping,  he 
would  have  hesitated  long  before  he  undertook  again  to  label 
any  woman. 

Once  or  twice  Grand'mere  was  tempted  to  show  him  the  true 
face  of  his  ignorance.  But  she  refrained.  She  remembered 
the  joy  of  her  own  young  simpUcity  and  the  bitterness  of  its 
passing,  and  she  let  him  keep  his  sensation  of  superiority. 

Having  thus  comfortably  dissected  Grand'mere,  Felix  plunged 
once  more  into  the  Humaji  Cofnedy. 

Before  the  time  came  for  him  to  leave  La  Maison  des 
Alouettes  he  had  read  the  whole  of  it.  When  he  had  done 
this  he  felt  as  if  he  were  an  elderly  man  burdened  with 
enormous  experience,  having  passed  along  all  the  paths  of 
life,  talked  with  all  the  pilgrims  by  the  way,  seen  the  most 
secret  workings  of  their  hearts,  followed  the  footsteps  of  their 
passions,  divined  if  not  observed  every  action  they  had  per- 
formed. He  thought  of  the  souls  of  the  pilgrims  as  interior 
palms,  on  which  each  deed  committed  had  traced  a  tiny  line, 
of  himself  as  the  unerring  palmist  reading  the  lines  and  telling 
the  pilgrims  precisely  what  they  were.  And  his  pilgrims  were 
very  much  astonished  when  they  learnt  from  Felix  what  they 
were.     They  had  really  not  known  till  that  very  moment. 

The  tailor,  of  course,  had  long  since  given  up  his  soul,  mind, 
character  to  the  inspection  of  his  frequent  visitor.  There  was 
a  fiery  simplicity  in  him,  and  he  did  not  dance,  like  Grand'mere, 
while  he  was  being  dissected.  Instead,  he  talked  of  Balzac  and 
of  Paris.  He  had  almost  renewed  his  youth  in  the  joy  of 
sympathetic  intercourse  with  one  to  whom  he  had  had  the 
privilege  of  revealing  the  glory  of  his  idol.  Felix's  young 
worship  of  Balzac  revived  his  old  adoration.  He  was  never 
weary  of  repeating  the  history  of  his  measurement  of  the 
novelist  and  describing  the  exact  shape  of  the  celebrated 
trousers  without  feet.  And  Felix  did  not  tire  of  listening.  He 
always  hoped  for  some  new  detail,  and  plied  the  tailor  with  a 
thousand  questions. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  time  was  drawing  near  for  Felix's 
final  departure  from  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  he  sat  smoking  a 
pipe  in  the  doorway  of  the  cottage  in  the  forest.  His  old  host 
as  usual  was  at  work,  cutting  out  a  Sunday  coat  for  Monsieur 
Camusot,  the  barber  of  Sachet.  It  was  the  month  of  April  and 
the  day  was  warm.  The  light  that  streamed  across  the  clearing 
was  pale  and  chequered,  for  there  were  many  clouds  in  the  sky, 
fleecy  and  white,  robust-looking  too,  full-bellied  monsters  that 
moved  slowly  before  a  light  wind,  or  lay  gathered  together  in 


FELIX  41 

squadrons  on  the  western  verge  of  the  blue,  as  if  waiting  to  show 
their  glory  as  the  sun  went  down.  When  the  sun  was  hidden 
for  a  moment  the  aspect  of  the  clearing  changed,  not  violently 
but  with  a  sort  of  secret  gentleness.  The  many  shades  of  colour 
in  the  piled-up  trunks  of  trees  recently  cut  down  grew  slightly 
darker.  Browns  with  a  hint  of  red  in  them  were  invaded  by  a 
suggestion  of  black.  Whites  that  had  been  silvery  and  shining 
became  dulled  and  grey.  The  pointed  blades  of  grass,  that 
sprouted  vagrantly,  and  sometimes  in  isolation,  here  and  there 
among  the  tangle  of  low-growing  and  sparse  brambles,  looked 
more  wan  and  companionless,  and  the  narrow  sections  of  space 
between  the  stems  of  the  growing  trees  more  mysterious  and 
exciting,  yet  infinitely  more  dismal.  A  dusky  shadow,  that  was 
yet  far  away  from  darkness,  stole  over  everything,  like  the  sound 
of  a  remote  and  nearly  suppressed  grief  gliding  into  the  ears  and 
calling  a  heart  from  its  complete  happiness. 

Felix  was  watching  these  changes  through  the  door  of  the 
cottage.  The  shears  clicked  behind  him,  and  he  heard  the 
creaking  and  constant  shuffling  of  the  tailor's  shoes  on  the  brick 
floor.  Neither  he  nor  the  tailor  had  spoken  for  some  minutes. 
A  critical  moment  for  the  coat  had  arrived.  This  kept  the 
proud  workman  silent.  And  Felix  was  idly  and  half  dreamily 
fascinated  by  the  woodland  vision  under  the  lights  and  shades 
of  spring.  The  continual  changes  in  it,  and  the  slightness  of 
them,  rocked  his  mind  as  if  in  a  cradle  that  was  pushed  by  a 
tired  foot.  There  was  magic  in  the  subtleties  of  nature  in  the 
forest  under  this  clouded  sky,  but  it  was  a  very  quiet  magic  that 
made  no  nerve  tingle,  no  pulse  beat. 

The  tailor  dropped  his  shears  on  the  table  and  sighed.  Felix 
looked  round. 

'What's  the  matter?     Anything  wrong  with  the  coat?' 

*No,  Monsieur.' 

•Then  why  do  you  sigh  like  that?' 

'  Monsieur,  I  am  old.  When  you  are  old  you  will  often  sigh 
without  requiring  a  reason  at  the  moment.  There  is  enough 
reason  in  the  world  for  more  than  all  our  sighs,  and  tears  too, 
believe  me.' 

The  tailor  was  standing  by  the  table  with  his  hand  resting 
heavily  upon  it.  He  looked  weary.  There  were  two  or  three 
drops  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead. 

'The  old  man's  sorrow  comes  to  him  with  the  spring,'  he 
added,  leaving  the  table  and  coming  forward  to  the  open  door. 
•That's  the  time  when  age  calls  out  in  him.' 

Felix  suddenly  felt  more  keenly  the  fascination  of  the  season 


42  FELIX 

and  of  this  hour  in  it,  because  they  brought  sadness  to  his 
companion.  His  heart  was  flooded  with  the  glory  of  be- 
ginning. 

'Ah,  but  spring  is  beautiful,'  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  cruelty. 

'We  don't  like  to  leave  it.  Monsieur,'  said  the  tailor  simply. 

The  sun  was  now  out,  and  a  bird,  perching  on  a  log  of  poplar 
that  lay  on  the  ground  c^uite  near  to  them,  uttered  three  times  a 
shrill,  sweet  note  that  was  like  a  call,  and  flew  off  into  the  forest. 
Its  flight  was  low  till  it  was  out  of  the  clearing.  Then  it  rose 
sharply,  and  disappeared  among  the  summits  of  the  trees. 

'  And  to  be  left  alone  is  sad  too.  Monsieur,'  the  tailor  con- 
tinued, after  a  slight  pause.     '  I  think  of  that  to-day.' 

Felix  understood  that  this  was  an  allusion  to  his  departure. 
He  both  eagerly  anticipated  and  dreaded  the  day  of  his  going. 
He  had  learnt  to  love  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  and  France.  The 
valley  through  which  the  river  ran  was  to  him  now  like  his  own 
garden,  the  forest  as  a  grove  within  it.  And  he  looked  upon 
this  little  gnarled  old  man  with  the  shears  as  a  friend  and  as 
something  more,  one  who  had  taken  him  to  a  window  through 
which  he  had  gazed  out  and  seen  a  great  panorama  of  life.  He 
had  the  quick  affections  of  a  sensitive  and  imaginative  boy. 
These  made  him  sorry  at  the  thought  of  bidding  good-bye  to  the 
tailor.  But  he  longed  to  plunge  into  the  crowd,  to  exchange  the 
role  of  spectator  for  another  more  worthy  of  a  man. 

'  How  long  exactly  were  you  in  Paris,  Louis  ? '  he  asked. 

'Eleven  months.  Monsieur.' 

*I  shall  be  longer,  much  longer  in  London,'  said  Felix. 

'Monsieur  is  going  to  live  in  London?' 

'Yes.' 

'And  what  will  you  do  there.  Monsieur?* 

*  I  don't  know,  Louis.  But  I  'd  like  to  do  something 
tremendous.  Anyhow,  I  'm  determined  to  meet  the  people  who 
are  doing  great  things.  By  Jove,  I  'm  determined  to  see  them 
and  spend  my  time  with  them,  not  with  the  drones.' 

'  And  I  shall  see  no  one.  Monsieur.  And  I  shall  die  here 
in  the  forest.' 

One  of  the  great  white  clouds  went  over  the  sun.  Another 
followed  and  another.     The  tailor  stared  across  the  clearing. 

^  Mo/i  Dieu  I  how  dull  and  quiet  it  is  ! '  he  said. 

'Why  don't  you  go  to  live  in  the  village?' 

'  Among  the  hen-brained  ?     No,  thank  you,  Monsieur.* 

'They  would  be  belter  than  nobody.' 

'  Monsieur,  I  have  the  habit  of  being  here.* 

•  Yes,  but ' 


FELIX  43 

*The  old  man  is  like  the  yellow  snail,  Monsieur,  and  his  habit 
is  like  the  house  of  the  snail.     I  shall  stay  here.' 

'  I  '11  write  to  you  from  London,'  said  Felix,  feeling  rather 
important. 

'  Monsieur  is  very  good.  I  hope  Monsieur  will  be  very 
happy.' 

'  Louis,  I  shall  be  happy  if  I  can  get  to  know  a  great  deal. 
Only  that  can  make  me  happy.' 

'  A  great  deal  about  what,  Monsieur  ? ' 

'About  men  and  women.' 

'  Ah,  you  would  be  like  Monsieur  Balzac,  whom  I  measured 
for  trousers  without  feet.  And  you  think  that  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  men  and  women  will  make  you  happy  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  feel  sure  it  will.' 

'  Maybe,  maybe.     But  there  is  much  evil  in  them.' 

*  I  don't  mind  that.     It  is  part  of  the  scheme,  you  know.' 

'What  is  the  scheme.  Monsieur?' 

'What  has  to  be  in  the  world.' 

There  was  a  silence  between  them.  Then  Felix  said,  '  Louis, 
the  first  day  I  saw  you  I  remember  your  saying  to  me,  "Shall 
one  man  know  everything,  another  nothing?"  If  I  can't  know 
everything,  at  least  I  mean  to  know  much.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
I  '11  come  back  here  to  you  and  tell  you — well,  I  '11  tell  you ' 

'  Tell  me  you  are  happy.  Monsieur.  That 's  what  I  '11  wish 
for  you,  that  you  may  come  back  here  and  tell  me  you  are 
happy.' 

A  few  days  afterwards  Felix  bade  good-bye  to  the  old  man. 
It  was  evening  when  he  gained  the  edge  of  the  clearing  on  his 
way  home  to  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  through  the  forest.  He 
stopped  for  a  moment  and  looked  back.  The  tailor  was 
standing  at  his  door,  bending  forward  to  see  the  last  of  his  boy- 
friend. Marthe  sat  near  him,  hunched  up  as  usual  with  her 
tail  tucked  under  her.  The  little  Honore  was  busily  smelling 
round  the  edge  of  a  pile  of  brushwood.  In  the  sky  a  bar  of 
pale-pink  cloud-films  was  extended  above  the  tall  trees.  A 
crowd  of  small  birds,  black  as  ink,  made  a  pattern  beneath  it 
as  they  flew  to  some  distant  place  hidden  in  the  breast  of  the 
night.  An  inexpressible  peace  had  descended  upon  the  clearing, 
which  was  bathed  in  a  faint  and  quivering  yellow  light,  pensive 
and  almost  unreal  in  its  delicate  loveliness. 

Felix  waved  his  hand.  The  large  hand  of  the  tailor  shot  up 
la  reply,  and  the  little  Honore,  supposing  that  a  stone  had  been 
thrown  for  him  to  fetch,  ran  forward  barking,  then  stopped  with 
one  paw  uplifted.     Felix  wavc-d  again.     Suddenly  he  felt  an 


44  FELIX 

intense  reluctance  to  leave  this  quiet  hermitage.  He  wondered 
whether  he  would  ever  come  back  to  it,  and  what  he  would 
have  to  tell  the  tailor  if  he  came. 

As  he  went  on  he  sighed.  There  was  something  strangely 
beautiful  in  the  silence  to-night.  A  damp  smell  came  to  him 
out  of  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  forest.  Looking  up  he  saw 
through  the  trees  the  evening  star  and  the  ethereal  crescent  of 
the  new  moon. 

Was  there  a  human  comedy  being  played  in  great  cities  far 
away?  He  felt  to-night  as  the  wide  world  held  but  a  trinity 
of  individualities :  God,  Nature,  himself. 


CHAPTER    IV 

FELIX  arrived  at  Churston  Waters  on  a  Thursday  after- 
noon. His  mother  and  sister  were  standing  at  the 
hall  door  with  glowing  faces  to  greet  him,  and  as  he  kissed 
them  he  forgot  France,  all  the  plans  he  had  been  forming, 
all  his  hopes  for  the  future,  in  the  comfortable  joy  of  being 
once  more  at  home  with  his  own  people.  At  tea  in  the 
familiar  low-roofed  drawing-room  he  looked  at  them  with 
eager,  inquiring  eyes.  His  mother  was  totally  unchanged, 
calm  and  gentle  as  usual.  Her  face  was  lit  up  by  a  shining 
happiness  which  made  her  seem  quite  young.  Felix  smiled  as 
he  noticed  her  icewool  shawl  lying  on  the  sofa  beside  her 
when  she  sat  down  and  took  up  the  silver  teapot.  He  was 
glad  to  see  it  again,  and  felt  inclined  to  pick  up  the  dear  old 
thing  and  stroke  it.  Then  he  glanced  at  Margot,  who  was 
sitting  in  her  characteristic  position,  which  he  remembered  so 
well,  squarely  on  her  low  chair  with  her  small  feet  slightly 
turned  in.  Her  sensitive,  brown  eyes  were  fixed  ardently  on 
her  brother,  and  when  she  met  his  eyes  she  blushed.  He  was 
conscious  of  her  shyness,  and  suddenly  began  to  share  it.  For 
a  moment  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  Mrs.  Wilding 
distributed  the  teacups  quietly.  Margot,  having  begun  to 
blush,  became  quite  violently  red.  Felix  looked  away  from 
her  towards  the  latticed  windows,  which  were  shut. 

'Why,  mater,'  he  said,  'it's  quite  warm  to-day,  and  we 
aren't  getting  any  air.     Shan't  I  open  one  of  the  windows?' 

'Well,  I  don't  know.  The  wind's  in  the  east,  Felix,'  said 
Mrs.  Wilding  with  some  hesitation. 

'  But  there  isn't  any  wind.     Have  you  got  a  cold  ? ' 

'A  slight  one.  But  you  might  open  the  far  window  in  the 
other  room.' 

Felix  got  up  to  do  it,  and  Mrs.  Wilding  picked  up  her  shawl 
and  put  it  round  her  shoulders.  When  he  had  opened  the 
window,  Felix  leaned  out  of  it  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the 
familiar  garden.  The  lawn  had  just  been  mown  in  honour  of 
his  arrival,  and  was  bright  green.     He  longed  to  pass  his  hands 


46  FELIX 

over  it.  Early  roses  were  blooming  along  the  narrow  gravel 
path  by  the  house,  and  the  great  fuchsia  stood  by  the  oval  seat 
under  the  yew-tree  drooping  its  red  tresses.  The  laburnum 
swayed  gently  in  the  breeze,  which  was  not  in  the  east  as 
Mrs.  Wilding  supposed,  but  which  blew,  on  the  contrary,  from 
the  west.  Swallows  were  darting  about  with  the  whimsical 
vivacity  that  makes  them  so  youthful  a  feature  in  any  landscape. 
Over  the  great  yew  hedge  the  yellow  church  gleamed  in  the 
sunshine.  Its  bell  chimed  the  half-hour.  Carriage  wheels 
sounded  on  the  hidden  road,  and  from  the  village  school  came 
a  confused  and  faint  noise  of  children's  voices.  How  different 
it  all  was  from  France.  There  was  another  flavour  here.  La 
Maison  des  Alouettes  was  more  utterly  retired  and  peaceful  than 
Churston  Waters,  yet  to  Felix  at  this  moment  it  seemed  as  if 
nothing  could  be  more  cloistered  from  the  turmoil  of  the  world 
than  his  home.  The  sounds  of  life  he  heard  accentuated  his 
feeling  of  remoteness  from  the  cries  and  footsteps  of  what  he 
called  mentally  real  life.  Those  voices  of  the  children  pro- 
claimed the  gaiety  of  utter  ignorance.  Felix  listened  to  them, 
he  fancied,  as  the  old  Faust  listened  to  the  music  of  youth  and 
of  jocund  labour  outside  his  study  window,  with  a  mingled 
pride  of  detachment  and  thrill  of  envy.  How  little  they  knew, 
and  wanted  to  know,  those  children  ! 
'  Felix,  you'll  catch  your  death  of  cold.' 

His  mother  spoke.  He  laughed,  and  came  back  to  the 
tea-table.  Margot  was  still  rather  red.  She  looked  down  into 
her  teacup. 

'  It 's  all  just  the  same,'  said  Felix.     '  Not  a  thing  altered.' 
'You    have    grown    broader,    Felix,'  answered   his    mother. 
*You  sit  up  better  than  you  did.' 
'  I  'm  a  man  now,  you  see,  mater.' 
*  How  is  your  French  ? ' 

Felix  said  a  few  words  quickly  in  that  language.  Mrs.  Wilding 
replied  fluently,  but  her  son  noticed  that  her  accent  was  exceed- 
ingly British.  Margot  did  not  venture  into  the  conversation, 
aUhough  she  was  decidedly  good  at  languages.  She  was  fright- 
fully diffident,  and  inclined  to  think  herself  a  fool  at  everything. 
This  little  episode  broke  the  slight  constraint  which  had  begun 
to  prevail  in  the  family  circle,  and  Felix,  who  was  always  stirred 
to  unusual  vivacity  by  tea,  began  to  hold  forth  with  all  the 
volubility  and  emphasis  that  were  natural  to  him.  In  France 
he  had  caught  the  trick  of  gesture,  and  this  made  the  contrast 
between  him  and  his  mother  and  sister  the  more  striking.  He 
had  just  begun  his  second  cup  of  tea  and  third  tirade  on  the 


FELIX  47 

delights  of  foreign  life  when  the  butler  opened  the  door  and 
announced : 

'Mr.  Bosanfield.' 

Margot's  round  cheeks  bloomed  out  anew,  as  she  and  her 
mother  exchanged  a  hurried  glance,  and  a  tall  clergyman  came 
in,  dressed  in  a  neat,  black,  bicycling  costume,  with  a  jam-pot 
collar,  and  holding  a  soft  black  hat  in  his  hand.  Felix  got  up. 
He  felt  vexed.  Mr.  Bosanfield  was  a  stranger  to  him.  The 
name  had  been  mentioned  several  times  by  Mrs.  Wilding  and 
Margot  in  their  more  recent  letters ;  and  Felix  remembered  that 
the  clergyman  had  been  described  as  the  new  rector  of  a  church 
in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Frankton  Wells,  by  his  mother  as 
a  very  conscientious,  hard-working  man,  and  by  his  sister  as 
the  possessor  of  an  excellent  tenor  voice.  Felix  looked  at 
him  while  he  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot. 

He  was  evidently  not  old,  perhaps  thirty-six  or  seven.  His 
face  was  clean-shaven,  brick-red,  and  resembled  the  faces  of 
men  bred  up  among  horses.  The  nose  was  hooked,  the  mouth 
firm  and  intent,  the  hair  black  and  retreating  from  a  high 
forehead.  The  eyes  were  small  and  grave,  dark  grey  in  colour, 
and  overshadowed  by  penthouse  eyebrows,  which  reminded 
Felix  of  the  eyebrows  of  Balzac's  tailor.  The  ears  were  large 
and  slightly  pointed  like  a  fawn's.  His  manner  was  staid  and 
definite,  and  his  actions  were  noticeable  for  their  finished 
deliberation.  He  came  into  a  room  as  if  he  had  previously 
thought  the  matter  of  the  best  way  to  come  into  a  room 
thoroughly  out,  and  had  decided,  for  all  time,  how  he  meant 
to  do  it. 

Mrs.  Wilding,  who  seemed  for  the  moment  distinctly  less 
calm  than  usual,  introduced  Felix  to  the  clergyman,  who  shook 
him  by  the  hand  in  rather  a  peculiar  way,  gripping  him  with 
a  tight  pressure  that  struck  him  as  oddly  full  of  will  and 
meaning. 

'Ah,  you  are  the  son  who  has  just  been  Hving  in  France,' 
the  visitor  said,  in  a  voice  undoubtedly  tenor.  'Very  glad  to 
welcome  you  home  again.' 

He  sat  down  next  to  Margot.  Felix  was  surprised  by  his 
remark.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  intimacy  in  the  way  it  was 
made,  a  definite  attempt  to  draw  near.  Margot  was  sitting 
with  her  feet  turned  in  more  than  usual,  and  looking  frightfully 
uneasy.  Mrs.  Wilding  poured  out  some  tea  for  the  visitor. 
Her  hand  shook  perceptibly. 

*  I  came  back  to-day,'  Felix  said,  rather  coldly. 

*  To-day — yes.     I  heard  you  were  coming.     I  once  took  a 


48  FELIX 

fortnight's  bicycling-tour  in  France  with  a  brother-clergyman. 
A  pleasant  enough  country.  A  pity  it  is  Catholic.  I  can't  say 
I  liked  the  look  of  the  priests  at  all.' 

'  One  of  my  best  friends  in  France  was  a  priest,'  said  Felix. 

'You  did  not  think  it  dangerous  to  have  close  intercourse 
with  one  on  the  wrong  side?' 

'The  wrong  side  ! ' 

'  Holding  a  wrong  faith ! ' 

'I  can't  say  I  did.     Besides,  I ' 

Margot  moved  on  her  chair,  and  Mrs.  Wilding  broke  in  with 
her  gentle  voice, 

'  The  cure  of  Sachet  seems  to  have  been  very  kind  to  you,  Felix.' 

'  He  was  awfully  kind.     A  jolly  good  fisherman  too.' 

*A  good  fisherman,  was  he?'  said  Mr.  Bosanfield,  sipping 
his  tea  and  looking,  Felix  thought,  increasingly  like  a  groom. 
'We  English  clergymen  haven't  much  time  for  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  I  remember  noticing  that  many  of  those  French 
priests  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do.' 

'  Oh,  I  think  they  work  quite  as  hard  as  country  clergymen  in 
England,' replied  Felix. 

He  felt  suddenly  pugnacious,  ready  to  defend  France  and 
all  her  people  against  any  one  who  dared  to  attack  them,  but 
most  especially  against  Mr.  Bosanfield. 

'Do  you?  Then  their  time  is  well  occupied,' answered  the 
visitor.  'You  must  be  very  thankful  to  be  back  in  your  own 
country.' 

'  I  felt  quite  at  home  in  France,'  said  Felix. 

He  saw  a  faint  quiver  at  the  corner  of  his  mother's  lips,  and 
quickly  added  : 

'  But  I  was  very  keen  to  see  my  people  again.  I  've  been 
away  from  them  a  long  time.' 

'  It  seemed  very  long  to  us,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  looking  at 
her  son  with  a  mother's  eyes. 

Margot  did  not  join  in  the  conversation.  The  clergyman 
frequently  looked  at  her.  Each  time  he  did  so  Felix  was 
conscious  of  an  increasing  hostility  against  him, 

'  I  always  think  we  are  better  in  our  own  country,'  said 
Mr.  Bosanfield.  '  It  suits  us,  and  we  suit  it.  There  is  too  much 
restlessness  nowadays.  People  go  too  far  afield.  They  are 
scarcely  ever  satisfied  to  stay  where  Providence  has  placed  them, 
and  to  do  their  duty  quietly.' 

'Well,  but  surely  people  who  are  satisfied  to  do  that  often 
get  awfully  narrow,'  exclaimed  Felix,  all  his  nature  rising  up 
against  the  insularity  of  these  remarks. 


FELIX  49 

*It  is  better  to  be  what  is  often  erroneously  called  narrow 
than  to  be  unduly  pleasure-loving,'  returned  Mr.  Bosanfield 
with  unimpassioned  firmness. 

After  saying  this  he  closed  his  mouth  with  a  snap,  and  looked 
as  if  he  were  just  going  to  begin  grooming  a  horse. 

Felix  felt  quite  hot. 

*  If  one  has  anything  in  one  it  is  natural  to  wish  to  know  a 
great  deal  of  life,'  he  said,  with  considerable  emphasis.  '  It  all 
depends  what  sort  of  nature  one  is  born  with.  Some  people 
can  squat  eternally  in  the  same  place.  Others  would  go  raving 
mad  if  they  had  to.     I  know  I  should.' 

'Some  of  the  wisest  of  men  scarcely  travelled  at  all,' remarked 
Mr.  Bosanfield  calmly. 

'  I  think  they  'd  have  been  still  wiser  if  they  had,'  answered 
Felix,  in  a  rather  piercing  voice. 

'Felix  is  young,  and  young  people  like  to  see  the  world,'  put 
in  Mrs.  Wilding  gently.  'Margot  dear,  Mr.  Bosanfield  has 
finished  his  tea.     Would  you  like  to  show  him  your  pansies?' 

Margot  turned  scarlet,  looked  guiltily  at  her  brother,  got  up 
and  went  rather  awkwardly  out  of  the  room  followed  by  the 
clergyman,  who  said  in  a  deliberately  nonchalant  voice  near 
the  door : 

*  I  want  to  take  a  few  lessons  in  gardening.  My  flowers  do 
very  badly  at  Frankton  Wells.' 

The  door  shut.  A  moment  later  Felix  saw  the  upper  halves 
of  his  sister  and  Mr.  Bosanfield  pass  by  the  drawing-room 
windows.  The  clergyman's  bust  glided  smoothly  across  the 
range  of  Felix's  vision,  as  if  it  were  fixed  upon  a  pedestal  that 
rolled  on  castors.  When  it  was  gone  Felix  looked  at  his 
mother. 

'  Mater,  I  hate  that  man,'  he  said. 

Mrs.  Wilding  was  evidently  much  pained. 

'Hush,  Felix,  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying,'  she 
answered.  'He's  an  excellent  man.  When  you  know  him 
better  you  '11  think  so.' 

'  D'  you  know  him  well  ? ' 

'Yes,  very  well  indeed.' 

Felix  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  he  exclaimed : 

'Why's  he  come  over  to-day?  Why  does  he  stare  at  Margot 
like  that  ? ' 

'  I  want  to  tell  you.     That  is  why  I  sent  them  into  the  garden.* 

The  truth  of  the  matter  suddenly  flashed  upon  Felix. 

•Good  God,  mater!'  he  cried,  'you  don't  mean  to  say  he's 
in  love  with  Margot  1  * 
D 


50  FELIX 

'  Felix,  please  don't  use  that  expression.  I  know  you  intend 
no  harm,  but  we  shouldn't  bring  the  name  of  God  into  ordinary 
conversation  like  that,  I  think.' 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  mater.     But  you  don't  mean  that ?' 

•Mr.  Bosanfield  loves  Margot.  I  couldn't  write  to  you.  It 
has  only  just  happened.' 

*  Happened  !    What 's  happened  ?    Margot  can't  possibly ' 

'Felix,  he's  a  good,  sincere  man,  and  Margot  loves  him  very 
much.' 

Felix  felt  as  if  all  that  had  been  firm  and  settled  in  his  life 
were  falling  to  pieces  with  uproar. 

'  Margot  love  a  man  with  ears  like  that ! '  he  cried,  far  from 
his  sense  of  humour.  '  Bigoted  too,  and — what  does  it  matter 
if  France  is  Catholic?  And  then  all  that  rot  about  the  priests 
being  lazy  and  looking  horrid,  as  if  all  priests  were  alike! 
Mater,  you  mustn't  let  her.  Why,  it 's  too  beastly  !  The  very 
first  day  I  come  home  ! ' 

He  felt  fearfully  excited,  and  as  if  a  cruel  injury  had  been 
done  to  him.     Mrs.  Wilding  put  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

'I  was  afraid  it  would  upset  you,  Felix  dear,'  she  said.  'I 
knew  you'd  be  very  much  surprised.  But  I  had  to  do  what 
was  right.  You  wouldn't  have  wished  me  to  act  unfairly  to 
Margot  ? ' 

'  Do,  mater  !     What  d'you  mean  ?     What  have  you  done?* 

'As  they  both  love  each  other  they  naturally ' 

'You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  they're  engaged  ! ' 
'It  only  happened  yesterday.     I  did   not  think  I  ought  to 
refuse.     My  boy,  do  try  to  think  a  little  of  your  sister.' 
'  Good  God  ! '  Felix  said  again.     '  Good  God  ! ' 
He   walked  away   to   the   window  and  stared   out  into  the 
garden.     Everything  he  looked  at  seemed  to  have  changed,  to 
have  become  ugly  and  dreary.     He  whistled  mechanically  the 
tune  of  an  old  French  song  Grand'mere  was  fond  of  playing  at 
La   Maison  des  Alouettes.     All  the  muscles  of  his  body   felt 
contracted.     Then  he  stopped  whistling  and  again  repeated, 
'  Good  God  ! ' 

Mrs.  Wilding  was  dreadfully  distressed.  She  had  been 
thankfully  happy  to  welcome  her  son  to  his  home.  Felix,  in 
his  eager  gaiety  of  youth,  had  no  idea  of  the  pain  his  long 
absence  had  caused  her.  Every  day  she  had  missed  him, 
thought  about  him,  prayed  for  him.  His  return  had  been  to 
her  as  a  great  festival.  Tears  had  rushed  to  her  eyes  when  she 
stood  at  the  hall  doer  and  saw  him  driving  up  the  road  past  the 
village  school.     He  and  Margot  were  everything  to  her.     That 


FELIX  51 

his  first  day  at  home  should  be  marred  cut  her  to  the  heart. 
She  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but  she  got  up  from  her  sofa  and 
followed  him  to  the  window. 

'  My  dear  boy,'  she  said,  '  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I 
shall  lose  a  great  deal  in  losing  Margot,  but  it  would  be  very 
wrong  of  me  to  interfere  between  her  and  a  right  happiness.' 

'  Margot  married  to  that  brute  ! '  said  Felix,  biting  his  lips. 

'Please  don't,  Felix.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  furtively  wiped 
her  eyes.     Felix  began  to  feel  hot  and  angry  against  his  mother. 

'  A  clergyman  too,'  he  said.     '  A  clergyman  ! ' 

At  that  moment  he  realised  for  the  first  time  how  much  he 
had  changed  while  he  had  been  in  France.  He  had  begun  to 
learn  that  there  was  in  his  nature  something  which  absolutely 
forbade  him  to  accept  as  certainly  true  anything  which  he  had 
not  investigated  and  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  to  be  true. 
He  thought  that  clergymen  did  that  more  often  than  other 
people. 

'  I  would  rather  see  Margot  the  wife  of  a  good  clergyman 
than  of  a  man  in  any  other  profession,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  with 
her  habitual  sincerity  which  never  deserted  her.  '  Surely  no- 
thing can  be  finer  than  to  devote  one's  life  to  furthering  the  only 
true  knowledge  of  God.' 

Felix  felt  as  if  he  were  a  clever,  grown-up  person  listening  to 
the  opinions  of  a  child  who  had  never  been  out  of  the  nursery. 

'Oh  mother,  what  nonsense!'  he  said.  'Why,  three- 
quarters  of  the  clergy  are  only  what  they  are  because  they 
happen  to  be  the  sons  of  clergymen,  or  to  have  been  taught  that 
the  English  religion  is  the  only  proper  one.  You  yourself  would 
have  been  as  ardent  a  Roman  Catholic  as  you  are  a  Protestant 
if  you  'd  had  Roman  Catholic  parents  and  married  a  Roman 
Catholic  husband.  The  only  true  knowledge,  you  say  !  And 
who  knows  what  the  only  true  knowledge  is?  You  don't. 
Margot  too  !  Why,  she  has  hardly  seen  anything,  and  you  let 
her  marry  this  ridiculous,  n;irrow-minded — oh,  in  two  minutes  I 
found  out  what  he  was,  just  the  very  sf^rt  of  man  I  hate.  Poch  ! 
judging  France  from  a  fortnight's  bicycling-tour  with  a  brother- 
cler<:;yman  ! ' 

Mrs.  Winding's  soul  was  filled  with  fear. 

'  Felix,  did  that  priest  you  know  try  to  influence  you  ?'  she 
asked.     '  I  know  priests  often ' 

'  No,  no,  no.  He  nlways  talked  about  carp  and  fishing-tackle. 
Mother,  you  don't  understand  me  a  bit,  or  what  I  mean.' 

'Have  you  changed,  then,  so   much  while  you  have   been 


52  FELIX 

away?'  Mrs.  Wilding  asked,    with   a  sudden   heart-sickness,  a 
keen  anxiety. 

Fehx  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  his  mother. 

'Have  I?' 

The  question  was  addressed  rather  to  himself  than  to  her. 

'  Yes,  I  have  changed — awfully.' 

*  But  why,  Felix  ?     What  has ?  ' 

*  I  '11  tell  you  some  time,  mater,  but  not  now.' 

He  noticed  the  scared  expression  in  her  face,  the  tears  swim- 
ming in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

'There,  dear  old  mother,'  he  exclaimed  with  a  pang  of 
compunction,  '  don't  be  upset.  I  'm  all  right.  A  boy  can't 
always  stick  in  the  same  place  and  have  the  same  ideas.  He 's 
got  to  develop  into  a  man.' 

He  gave  her  a  rather  rough  and  boyish  kiss. 

'There's  a  lot  in  life  women  don't  know  about — at  least  a 
great  many  women.  But  Margot — it's  all  rot,  mater,  about  her 
loving  this  fellow.  How  can  she  know?  Why,  she's  been 
boxed  up  here  all  her  life  and  seen  nobody.' 

'  Nobody  ?     But  we  have  a  great  many  friends,  and ' 

*  Oh,  country  friends  ! ' 

'  Well,  but  we  are  country  people,  Felix.* 

A  strong  feeling  of  impatience  rose  in  him. 

'  If  we  are  we  needn't  be  vegetables.  We  needn't  shut  our 
eyes  to  all  the  facts  of  life,  and  judge  a  nation  from  the  seat 
of  a  bike.  Margot  will  never  be  happy  with  a  country  parson 
like  that.' 

He  felt  as  if  his  sister  must  be  as  himself  in  essential  feeling, 
whether  she  realised  it  or  not. 

'  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  against  the  clergy,  Felix.' 

'They're  so  easily  contented.' 

'  But  surely  that  is  a  great  blessing  for  them.' 

'Mater,  my  point  of  view's  so  different  from  yours,  so — so 
different.  I  shall  speak  to  Margot.  I  '11  make  her  understand 
what  a  fool  she  'd  be  to  rush  into  a  thing  like  this  before  she 
knows  anything      Has  he  got  any  money?' 

'  He  has  his  living.' 

'  What  is  that  worth  ?  ' 

*  Three  hundred  a  year,  I  believe.' 

'  And  how  much  has  he  got  of  his  own  ?  ' 

*  I  'm  not  sure.     I  dare  say  he  has  something.* 

'But  you  don't  know?  You've  never  asked  him?  And 
Margot  has  between  eight  and  nine  hundred  a  year.  Mater, 
you  are  as  innocent  as  a  baby.' 


FELIX  53 

At  this  moment  Felix's  mind  was  filled  with  many  recollec- 
tions of  the  eternal  financial  scheming  in  the  Comedie  Hiwiaine, 
His  poor  mother's  simplicity  and  trustfulness  seemed  to  him 
quite  pitiable. 

'  But  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,  Felix.  You  surely 
would  not  accuse  a  clergyman  of ' 

He  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  and  burst  out  laughing. 

'  Poor  old  mother,  I  see  I  shall  have  to  take  care  of  you  and 
of  Margot  too.  You  don't  suppose  a  man  is  turned  into  a  saint 
by  the  act  of  taking  orders,  do  you  ?  Why,  you  might  as  well 
say  that  a  thief  could  change  his  nature  by  becoming  a  police- 
man.    My  dear  mater  ! ' 

Margot  and  Mr.  Bosanfield  appeared  again  at  the  window. 
As  they  passed  Margot  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  Felix,  whose 
keen  irritation  returned  directly  he  saw  the  clergyman's  brick- 
red  face  and  thick  eyebrows. 

'You  won't  say  anything,  now,  Felix,'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wilding 
nervously,     '  You  won't  show  Mr.  Bosanfield  that ' 

'  Mater,  I  hope  I  know  how  to  behave  like  a  gentleman.' 

Margot's  eyes  questioned  her  brother  as  she  re-entered  the 
room  followed  by  her  lover,  who  carried  a  small  bunch  of 
purple  and  yellow  pansies.  But  Felix  looked  away  from  her. 
He  was  making  an  effort. 

*  I  think  I  ought  to  be  going,  Mrs.  Wilding,'  said  the  clergy- 
man. '  It  is  choir-practice  niyht,  and  this  week  we  are  being 
very  ambitious.  We  intend  to  do  Spohr's  "Praise  His  Awful 
Name"  as  our  anthem  next  Sunday  evening.' 

'  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  hear  it ! '  exclaimed  Margot,  as  if 
carried  away  by  an  irresistible  impulse. 

Then  she  looked  very  uncomfortable,  like  a  person  who  has 
made  some  dreadful  mistake. 

'Why  not  come  over?'  said  Mr.  Bosanfield,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Wilding. 

'  I  'm  afraid  we  mustn't  do  that,'  she  replied.  '  I  never  take 
the  horses  out  on  a  Sunday,  and  besides  I  think  it  is  hardly 
right  to  go  gadding  about  when  one's  own  church  is  close  by. 
It  might  hurt  the  rector's  feelings  and  set  a  bad  example  in  the 
parish. 

'You  are  quite  right,'  said  Mr.  Bosanfield.  '  But  you  always 
think  of  everybody  and  everything.  It  is  certainly  very  painful 
for  tlie  shepherd  to  see  his  flock  straying  away  from  his  ken.' 

During  this  short  conversation  Felix  felt  as  utterly  detached 
as  if  he  were  listening  to  people  talking  a  laiiguage  he  could  not 
understand.     He  thought  of  France,  of  his  collcquies  with  the 


54  FELIX 

tailor,  of  his  mental  life  in  the  ruined  chapel  with  the  Baron 
Hulot,  the  Pere  Goriot,  and  how  many  others.  He  heard  the 
sound  of  the  Angelus  bell  ringing  far  off  in  the  distant  valley, 
and  remembered  how  it  had  sometimes  recalled  him  from  the 
existence  of  dreams  and  made  him  feel  cold  and  afraid.  Now 
he  longed  to  hear  it  really,  not  only  in  fancy,  and  he  knew  that, 
could  he  do  so,  he  would  think  its  little  voice  most  sweet.  The 
group  of  three  people  in  the  low-ceilinged  room  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  his  real  self.  Even  the  old  tailor  had 
understood  him  more  than  they  could,  had  been  more  akin  to 
him.  The  clergyman  was  turning  his  bunch  of  pansies  round 
and  round  between  his  long,  reddish  fingers.  He  looked 
steadily  at  Felix  with  his  small,  firm  eyes. 

'  I  hope  to  welcome  you  to  the  rectory,'  he  said,  '  and  to 
show  you  our  church.  It  is  really  a  pretty  one.  Norman  Shaw 
designed  it,  and  we  have  a  Kemp  window  that  is,  I  take  it,  an 
excellent  specimen  of  his  work.' 

'Thank  you,'  Felix  said. 

'Perhaps  when  you  are  riding  or  bicycling  you  will  look  in  ?' 

'Thanks  very  much.     It's  very  good  of  you.' 

Mr.  Bosanfield  turned  away,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has 
done  the  exactly  right  thing  in  the  exactly  right  manner,  shook 
hands  carefully  with  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot,  and  bade  them 
good-bye.  Felix  accompanied  him  to  the  hall  door,  where  his 
bicycle  was  standing  against  the  stone  wall  that  skirted  the  high- 
road as  far  as  the  stables.  Mr.  Bosanfield  bent  down  to  arrange 
the  clips  on  his  neat  and  narrow  black  trousers.  Having  done 
this  he  returned  slowly  to  an  erect  posture,  and  put  his  soft 
black  hat  on  his  head,  pulling  it  well  down  by  the  brim.  Under 
the  hat  his  face  looked  different,  less  horsey,  but  older  and 
plainer.  He  laid  his  left  hand  on  the  seat  of  the  bicycle  and 
grasped  Felix's  hand  with  his  right. 

'  Well,  good-bye  to  you,'  he  said,  with  calm  heartiness.  *  I 
am  very  glad  we  have  met  at  last.' 

Again  Felix  was  conscious  of  his  determination  of  will  and 
intention  to  draw  near,  and  felt  the  recoil  within  himself. 

'Thanks  awfully.  Good-bye,'  he  replied,  with  an  attempt  at 
careless  ease. 

Mr.  Bosanfield  wheeled  the  bicycle  out  from  the  wall,  put 
one  foot  on  the  step,  hopped  three  times,  and  mounted.  There 
was  character  in  each  of  his  hops.  Felix  noticed  that.  He  did 
not  even  hop  anyhow.  Felix  looked  after  him  till  he  was  a 
black  doll  on  the  white  road,  like  the  black  dolls  who  bent  in 
the  night  over  the  river  Loire.     As  Felix  turned  to  go  back  into 


TELIX  55 

the  house  he  recalled  the  strange  sensation  wlvch  had  filled  his 
heart  as  he  heard  the  distant  music  on  the  island  mingling  with 
the  murmur  of  the  water  r  )und  the  piers  of  the  bridge,  the  desire 
which  had  come  to  him  to  do  something  great,  the  flood  of 
beauty,  mystery,  passion,  and  sorrow  which  had  swept  through 
his  soul,  murmuring  its  message. 

Mr.  Bosanfield  was  glad  that  they  had  met  each  other.  What 
was  the  good  of  their  meeting?  He  was  hurrying  home  to  his 
choir  practice,  and  he  was  doubtless  quite  contented  and  entirely 
wrapped  up  in  the  forthcoming  performance  of  '  Praise  His 
Awful  Name'  on  Sunday  evening.     Well,  well ! 

When  Felix  came  into  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Wilding  was 
holding  her  icewool  shawl  over  her  mouth  while  she  shut  the 
window  he  had  opened.  Margot  was  at  the  piano  turning  over 
some  music,  and  looking  nervous.  She  started,  when  her 
brother  entered,  though  she  must  have  expected  him. 

'Margot,'  he  said,  'come  for  a  walk  round  the  garden.  I 
haven't  seen  it  yet.' 

'Yes,  Felix.' 

She  left  the  piano  slowly.  Her  round  face  was  full  of  humility, 
and  her  voice  sounded  quite  obsequious.  Mrs.  Wilding  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  of  her  children,  but  she  did  not  say  any- 
thing, and  they  went  out  together  in  silence.  When  they  were 
in  the  garden  Felix  said  abruptly,  'Mater's  been  telling  me.' 

'Telling  you!  O  Felix,  you  don't  mind?  You  aren't 
angry  ? ' 

'  But  that  isn't  the  question.  I  'd  give  everybody  the  right 
to  act  as  they  please,  yes,  everybody.' 

He  was  suddenly  amorous  of  the  gospel  of  freedom,  which  he 
had  scarcely  thought  about  till  that  moment. 

'Would  you?  I  suppose  everybody  should  be  able  to  know 
what  they — to  know  themselves,'  Margot  said  eagerly,  though 
vaguely,  and  still  in  the  obsequious  voice. 

'That's  just  it,'  Felix  said.  'They  should,  but  more  often 
than  not  they  know  nothing  about  themselves.' 

♦Don't  they?' 

*I  found  that  out  in  France.  When  I  went  to  France  I  had 
literally  no  idea  of  what  I  was  really  like.' 

'Hadn't  you?     Well,  but  how  odd  ! ' 

*  I  don't  believe  it 's  odd  at  all.  I  believe  most  of  us  are 
hideouslv  ignorant  about  ourselves.     I  expect  you  are  for  one,' 

•Oh,  can  I  be?' 

'  It 's  not  difficult,'  Felix  said,  with  a  kind  of  elderly  sarcasm. 
'But  I  can  tell  you  it's  a  bad  business  to  alter  your  whole  life 


56  FELIX 

before  you  know  what  you  really  are,  and  so  what  you  really 
want.     I  shouldn't  care  to  do  it.' 

'  1  'm  nearly  twenty-three,  you  know,'  said  Margot  anxiously. 

She  divined  what  was  coming. 

'  You  look  about  eighteen.' 

'Still,  I  shall  be  twenty-three  on  my  next ' 

'And  with  the  sort  of  life  you've  led,'  interrupted  Felix 
inexorably,  'it's  next  to  impossible  that  you  can  form  a  right 
judgment  of  a  man.     What  do  you  know  about  men?' 

'What  do  I  know?  How  do  you  mean?  I've  met  a  good 
many  men.' 

'Yes,  at  tennis-parties,  village  concerts,  out  at  dinner.  Do 
you  suppose  men  show  what  they  really  are  when  they're  in 
society?  How  can  you  get  into  a  man's  mind,  or  see  the  work- 
ings of  his  nature,  when  he's  talking  a  lot  of  twaddle  that  he 
thinks  will  please  you  at  the  moment,  or  smiling  to  satisfy  a 
number  of  old  women  who  'd  die  of  horror  if  they  knew  what 
he  was  really  like?' 

Margot  began  to  look  very  perplexed. 

'  But  you  talk  as  if  all  men  had  something  dreadful  to  hide,' 
she  murmured. 

'And  so  most  of  them  have,' answered  Felix,  with  emphatic 
sincerity. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  the  commercial  traveller  of  Tours. 
Ah  !  he  understood  now  what  the  lives  of  such  pale  men  were 
like.  He  began  to  feel  quite  fatherly  to  Margot,  and  all  his 
irritation  had  disappeared. 

'  My  dear  child,'  he  continued,  '  if  you  could  only  realise  how 
difficult  men  are  to  read,  you  wouldn't  rush  into  a  marriage  with 
one,  I  can  tell  you.' 

Margot  blushed  at  this  allusion  to  her  love  affair. 

'  I  don't  know  about  rushing,'  she  began  in  a  low  voice. 

'How  long  have  you  known  Bosanfield?' 

'Ever  since  he  came  to  St.  Mary's,  about  six  months.' 

'Six  months!     How  old  is  he?' 

'Thirty-six  and  a  half.' 

'So  there  are  just  thirty-six  years  of  his  life  that  you  know 
nothing  about.' 

'Oh,  but,  Felix,  you  don't  suppose  he's  ever  done  anything 
dreadful !     Why,  he's  a  clergyman,  and ' 

'  There  you  go,  just  like  mater  ! ' 

'Like  mother?' 

'She's  been  talking  as  if  a  man  who  is  a  clergyman  couldn't 
do  anything  wrong.* 


FELIX  67 

'I'm  sure  Ste — I  mean  Mr.  Bosanfield — couldn't.' 

'Why?' 

'  Because  he  's  the  most  conscientious  man  I  ever  met,'  cried 
Margot,  suddenly  losing  her  nervousness.  '  He  thinks  of  nothing 
but  what's  rigp.t.' 

'Then  he's  a  jolly  shallow  thinker,'  rctorled  her  brother. 

'  But  he  's  very  cle\  er  indeed.' 

'  How  d'  you  know  that  ?  ' 

'  He  did  splendidly  at  Oxford.' 

'  Is  that  why  you  want  to  marry  him?' 

'No — of  course  not,'  said  Mar|.,ot,  looking  down  at  the  gravel 
walk,  on  which  they  were  slowly  pacing,  between  the  short,  stiff 
rose-trees  with  their  little  labels. 

'  Then  why  ? ' 

'Oh,  Felix  !     Why  does  any  one  want  to  marry  anybody?' 

'Come  now,  Margot,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Bosanfield  is  your  hero  of  romance  ! ' 

'  I  think  he's  the  best  man  I  ever  met.' 

Felix  began  to  chafe  under  this  continual  setting  of  moral 
excellence  before  all  other  qualities.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
both  his  mother  and  sister  were  exceedingly  limited  people. 

'Dear  me!  Virtue  isn't  everything!'  he  cried.  'Some  of 
the  stupidest  and  most  boring  souls  in  creation  keep  the  Com- 
mandments.' 

'  Mr.  Bosanfield  isn't  stupid  or  boring,'  said  Margot,  getting 
hot.     'He's  very  intelligent  and  well  informed.' 

'I  know  exactly  how  it  is.  You're  so  pleased  with  him  for 
loving  you  that  you  think  he's  a  paragon.  That's  a  woman 
all  over.' 

'  It 's  not  that  at  all.' 

'  You're  not  pleased  with  him?* 

'Yes,  but ' 

'  Then  it  is  that.  And  if  some  arrant  rascal  had  fallen  in  love 
with  you,  it  would  have  been  just  the  same.  My  dear  Margot, 
I  know  you.  You're  so  humble  that  any  one  who  showed  he 
thought  a  lot  of  you  would  carry  you  off  your  feet  directly. 
You  think  nothing  of  yourself,  and  you've  no  more  will-power 
than  a  baby.  I'll  bet  anything  that  at  this  moment  you're 
feeling  positively  grateful  to  Bosanfield  because  he's  said  he's 
in  love  with  you.' 

The  conscious  expression  in  his  sister's  rosy,  round  face 
showed  him  that  he  had  hit  the  mark. 

'  I  knew  you  were.  Good  gracious,  Margot,  I  wish  you  'd 
think  a  little  more  of  yourself.     You're  worth  twenty  Bosan- 


68  FELIX 

fields.     But  you're  just  like  mater  in  all  those  ways.     I  never 
saw  such  humble  people.     He's  not  humble.' 

*  He 's  not  at  all  conceited.  But  naturally  in  his  position 
of  authority ' 

'  Authority !  A  rector  at  three  hundred  a  year's  position  of 
authority ! ' 

'  Well,  it  is.     He  has  to  arrange  and  direct ' 

'Performances  of  "Praise  His  Awful  Name"  and  Mothers' 
Meetings.  I  know.  If  you  marry  him  you'll  live  a  limited  life, 
you'll  have  a  squeezed  intellect,  you'll  be  contented  with  a 
twaddling,  little  existence.' 

'You're  very  unkind,'  said  Margot,  almost  in  tears.  'It's 
not  a  twaddling,  little  existence  to  be  a  rector's  wife.  One  can 
be  very  useful  and  do — do  a  great  deal — of — of  good.' 

She  gulped,  and  looked  so  frankly  miserable  and  hurt  that 
Felix  felt  a  moment's  compunction. 

'  Don't  cry  about  nothing,  Margot,'  he  said. 

'  How  would  you  like  it  if  I  were  to  speak  as  you  do  about 
somebody  you  cared  for?'  she  asked  piteously, 

'  I  was  only  saying  what's  true.' 

'But  you  don't  know  him.  How  can  you?  You've  only 
seen  him  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.' 

'  Quite  enough  too,'  said  Felix. 

He  honestly  believed  that  he  knew  the  clergyman  through 
and  through.  Margot  had  a  tremendous  opinion  of  her  brother's 
cleverness.  She  was,  indeed,  vaguely  inclined  to  think  that  all 
men  were  clever  in  a  way.  Cleverness  seemed  to  her  an  attribute 
that  went  with  their  sex.  But  to-day  she  showed,  for  her, 
unusual  tenacity. 

'It  isn't  enough  at  all,' she  answered.  'Why,  just  now  you 
said  I  couldn't  know  what  Stephen  was  like  in  six  months.' 

'  Stephen  ! '  cried  Felix,  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

*  Mr.  Bosanfield.' 

'  That's  different.    You  're  a  girl  without  any  knowledge  of  life/ 

'  But  you ' 

' Mirgot,'  Felix  said  impressively,  '  I  've  been  to  a  public 
school  and  also  to  France.' 

'  I  know  you  've  been  to  France,  but  only  to  a  tiny  little  place 
with  scarcely  anybody  there.' 

Felix  smiled  rather  loftily.  Was  not  the  crowding  population 
of  the  Com'edie  Humai}ie  there?  ' 

'  In  that  tiny  little  place,  as  you  call  it,  I  learnt  more  about 
life  than  you'll  ever  know  if  you  become  Mrs.  Bosanfield,'  he 
answered.     'You — Mrs.  Bosanfield  !' 


FELIX  69 

Margot  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  with  something 
else  by  his  last  two  words.  She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which 
had  become  suddenly  so  expressive  that  they  startled  him.  For 
a  brief  instant,  as  he  met  them,  he  felt  as  if  his  sister  were  an 
utter  stranger  to  him,  a  stranger  complicated,  ardent,  even 
mysterious  and  elusive.  Then  she  dropped  her  eyes,  hesitated 
for  a  moment,  and  hurried  away  to  the  house  without  another 
word. 

Felix  stood  still.  There  was  a  small  William  of  Orange 
rose  growing  on  a  tree  close  to  him.  His  eyes  fell  on  it.  The 
leaves  of  it  were  sincerely  green,  delicate,  comprehensible. 
The  petals,  curling  slightly  outward,  were  pale  at  the  edges, 
but  lower  down  deepened  in  colour  till  the  closely  guarded 
heait  of  the  rose  became  a  mystery  of  brownish-orange,  and 
seemed  to  have  a  fragrant  bloom  of  sensitive  fire.  Was  a  woman 
like  that,  and  did  he  only  see,  as  a  rule,  the  pale  edges  of  her 
petals?  Was  Margot  like  that?  As  he  stood  there  looking  at 
the  little  rose  he  felt  stupid  and  curious,  consciously  boyish  for 
an  instant  too.  All  the  knowledge  he  had  seized  out  of  the 
pages  of  books  slipped  away  from  him  as  water  slips  out  of 
a  glass  held  obliquely.  But  even  while  he  was  doubtful  about 
Margot,  he  felt  certain  that  he  knew  all  about  Mr.  Bosanfield. 


CHAPTER    V 

IT  seemed  to  Felix  that  evening  as  if  he  were  a  stranger  in 
his  own  home.  He  stayed  out  in  the  garden  for  a  long 
while  after  Margot  left  him,  and  when  he  came  in  she  had  gone 
to  her  room  to  dress  for  dinner.  His  mother  was  just  going  to 
follow  her  when  Felix  appeared  in  the  drawing-room,  looking 
unusually  dull. 

'  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  mater,'  he  said  at  once,  '  but  I 
don't  seem  to  understand  Margot  a  bit  as  I  used.  I  think  she 's 
altered  somehow.' 

'  Women  always  alter  when  a  great  affection  comes  into  their 
lives,'  replied  Mrs.  Wilding  quietly. 

'  A  great  affection  for  that  man  ! '  cried  Felix,  '  Mother,  you 
and  she  must  have  lost  your  senses  ! ' 

He  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Wilding's  calm 
acceptance  of  the  situation  made  him  feel  almost  violent.  He 
had  been  accustomed  to  feel  that  he  was  a  ruling  spirit  in  the 
household  since  his  father  died.  Nominally  of  course  his 
mother  had  always  been  in  authority,  but  Felix,  during  his  holi- 
days, had  generally  had  his  own  way  in  almost  everything.  His 
mother  and  sister  were  such  quiet  and  unselfish  people,  and  till 
now  his  desires  had  been  so  boyish  and  legitimate  that  it  had 
been  seldom  indeed  necessary  to  thwart  them,  and  without  such 
necessity  Mrs.  Wilding  was  the  last  person  likely  to  assert  her 
authority.  As  to  Margot,  although  she  was  sometimes  what  her 
brother  called  'mulish,'  especially  when  there  was  any  question 
of  her  exerting  herself  very  actively,  the  occasions  on  which 
she  had  set  up  any  opposition  to  Felix's  will  were  rare  indeed. 
Most  only  sons  alone  in  a  house  with  women  become  instinc- 
tively autocratic.  To-night  Felix  was  conscious  of  the  internal 
irritation  of  the  Grand  Turk  gently  resisted  if  not  defied  by 
members  of  his  harem. 

Just  as  the  Wildings  were  sitting  down  at  the  dinner-table  the 
church  bells  began  to  ring. 

•Oh,  1  say — is  it  Thursday  ?'  excbimed  Felix.     *0f  course  it 

60     - 


FELIX  61 

is.     1  do  hate  those  bells.     They  might  have  let  me  off  on  my 

first  night  at  home.' 

One  of  his  black  melancholies  began  to  steal  over  him.  The 
way  had  been  prepared  for  it  during  the  afternoon,  and  the  bell- 
ringers,  unconsciously,  set  it  in  motion  towards  its  victim.  Mrs. 
Wilding  talked  cheerfully  instead  of,  as  usual,  listening  with  un- 
tiring interest  and  patience  to  the  talk  of  others,  but  she  got  little 
response  from  either  Felix  or  Margot.  The  one  was  frankly 
gloomy  and  taciturn,  the  other  nervous  and  constrained,  and  the 
persistently  chiming  bells  seemed,  even  to  Mrs.  Wilding,  to 
create  an  uneasy  and  melancholy  atmosphere  in  the  dark 
summer  night.  Her  imagination  could  not  join  the  imagination 
of  her  son  in  fantastic  promenades  about  the  black  places  of  the 
earth,  or,  with  Margot's,  sit  down  almost  sulkily  to  brood,  but  she 
too  was  sensitive  in  a  high  degree.  Beneath  her  calm  and 
motherly  air  she  concealed  a  deep  capacity  to  feel,  and  her 
tenderness  for  her  children  was  so  great  that  no  mood  of  theirs 
could  fail  to  affect  her  intimately.  To-night  she  had  put  on  her 
best  gown.  Some  black  tulle  was  twisted  deftly,  almost  coquet- 
tishly,  in  her  beautiful  white  hair.  At  her  neck  she  wore  the 
finest  jewel  she  possessed,  a  big  diamond  set  in  green  enamel, 
from  which  hung  three  large  and  shapely  pearls.  These  little 
preparations  had  been  made  not  all  from  vanity,  but  solely  to  do 
honour  to  her  boy.  So  simple  was  she  that  she  had  thought  of 
them  for  days  before  his  arrival.  She  had  even,  in  spite  of  the 
uncomfortable  events  of  the  afternoon,  carried  them  out  with 
some  eagerness  and,  perhaps,  a  womanish  idea  that  Felix, 
noticing  her  in  the  garb  of  festivity,  would  be  won  from  his 
vexation,  that  his  pleasure  in  being  once  more  with  those  who 
loved  him  and  set  him  on  high  would  conquer  the  angry  sur- 
prise roused  in  him  by  the  news  of  his  sister's  affection.  If  she 
had  indulged  in  hopes  she  was  deceived  in  them.  Before  the 
end  of  dinner  she  felt  that  her  moderately  smart  dress  was  almost 
ridiculous.  She  had  ordered  the  butler  to  open  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagiie,  and  had  intended  at  dessert  to  drink  Felix's  health.  But 
when  the  fruit  was  handed  round  she  looked  at  the  two  gloomy 
and  abstracted  faces  on  either  side  of  her,  and  at  first  had  not 
the  courage  to  do  it.  The  unwonted  efforts  she  had  made  to 
start  subjects  of  conversation  during  the  meal  had  tired  her 
physically  and  mentally,  but  she  still  patiently  exerted  herself  to 
be  bright  and  cheerful,  and  bravely  struggled  against  the  pain 
which  the  demeanour  of  her  children  set  in  her  heart.  The  time 
came,  however,  when  she  could  think  of  nothing  more  to  say. 
Such   invention   as  she   had  was  exhausted.     Margot  scarcely 


62  FELIX 

opened  her  lips.  Felix  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take  any 
interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  village  and  of  the  neighbours,  or  to 
relate  any  of  his  adventures  in  France.  His  mother's  excursions 
into  the  realms  of  more  formal  and  less  intimate  conversation, 
her  mention  of  music,  her  allusion  to  a  new  book,  were  unattended 
by  a  better  fortune.  At  last  silence  fell.  Mrs.  Wilding  sup- 
pressed a  sigh.  The  bubbles  of  champagne  were  winking  at  the 
brim  of  her  glass.  They  recalled  to  her  the  gracious  joy  of 
yesterday,  the  exquisite  anticipation  of  her  son's  arrival.  Now 
he  was  here,  cold,  distant,  almost  hostile  in  his  manner.  Her 
mouth  trembled,  but  she  controlled  herself  and  again  sought  for 
a  topic  of  conversation.  She  could  not  find  one,  and  the  silence 
continued,  broken  by  the  bob-majors  from  the  belfry.  Margot, 
who  had  been  eating  a  pear,  finished  it  and  laid  down  her  knife 
and  fork.  There  seemed  nothing  more  to  wait  for.  Mrs.  Wilding 
looked  at  her  glass  again  and  summoned  up  her  courage. 

'  I — I  think  we  should  drink  your  health  to-night,'  she  said 
gently,  looking  at  her  son.     'Come,  Margot.' 

She  lifted  her  glass,  and  with  a  smile  that  was  very  near  to 
tears,  sipped  the  champagne  and  bowed  to  Felix  in  the  old- 
fashioned  way.  Margot,  growing  red,  hesitated,  and  finally 
drank  some  wine  too  without  looking  at  any  one  or  saying  a 
word.  Felix  compressed  his  lips,  and  tapped  his  hand,  the 
fingers  of  which  were  tightly  folded  together,  on  the  table. 

'Oh,  thanks,  mater,'  he  murmured  gruffly.  'You  needn't 
bother.' 

He  seemed  displeased  by  the  little  attention.  Mrs.  Wilding 
got  up  from  the  table. 

'  You  will  find  a  box  of  cigarettes  on  the  sideboard,'  she 
said.  *  I  got  them  from  the  stores.  I  hope  they  are  what  you 
like.  The  man  told  me  gold-tipped  cigarettes  were  the  most 
popular,  so  I  got  those.' 

'Oh,  I  expect  they're  all  right.     Thanks.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  went  into  the  drawing-room  followed  closely  by 
Margot,  and  Felix  sat  down  gloomily  to  smoke.  The  bells  were 
still  ringing.  He  felt  suicidal.  The  whole  atmosphere  was 
antagonistic  to  him  to-night.  He  longed  to  leave  the  house 
and  the  place  at  once.  The  thought  of  the  railway  station  with 
its  bustle  and  lights,  of  the  whistle  of  the  engine,  of  the  rushing 
motion  of  the  train,  of  the  arrival  on  Dover  pier,  of  the  sight  of 
the  sea  and  the  faint  cliff-line  of  France,  stirred  in  him  a  longing 
that  was  akin  to  the  longing  of  a  prisoner  to  escape  from  his  cell. 
He  was  even  amazed  at  the  violence  of  the  sensation  that  he 
was  in  a  sort  of  prison,  here  in  his  home  with  his  mother  and 


FELIX  63 

sister.  He  was  no  longer  thinking  about  Mr.  Bosanfield  and 
Margot,  but  was  concentrated  upon  himself.  The  ego  which 
returned  in  him  to  Churston  Waters  was  different  from  the  ego 
which  had  gone  in  him  to  France.  Surely  it  was  quite  different. 
The  environment  in  which  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
had  become  unsuited  to  him,  or  rather  he  must  have  become 
unsuited  to  it.  His  mother's  little  attentions  at  dinner  had 
made  him  feel  awkward  and  irritable.  Her  conversation  had  not 
roused  in  him  any  desire  to  talk.     What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

He  listened  to  the  bells.  There  were  eight  of  them,  and  they 
were  good  ones,  clear  and  powerful.  He  had  always  disliked 
their  sound  at  night.  Now  he  hated  it.  He  connected  them 
with  churchy  things  and  churchy  people,  with  young  ladies 
decorating  a  pulpit,  with  an  organist  practising  hymns,  with 
black-coated  clergymen  who  hated  priests,  and  talked  of  the 
right  faith  and  the  wrong,  like  Mr.  Bosanfield.  And  he  seemed 
like  a  man  shut  up  in  a  box,  unable  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  stretching  life  outside.  Vaguely  he  longed  for  bigness — 
of  action,  of  idea,  conception.  Judgment.  Was  he  not  sur- 
rounded by  the  infinitely  small  ?  The  conversation  in  the 
drawing-room  at  tea-time  with  the  clergyman  had  been  simply 
pitiable.  Yet  had  his  mother  noticed,  shrunk  from  the 
pitiableness  of  it?  And  Margot?  Why,  she  was  actually  eager 
to  draw  closer  to  the  pettiness  from  which  he  recoiled,  to  lose 
her  identity  in  it.  And  his  mother  was  apparently  satisfied  with 
her  decision. 

Felix  wondered  what  his  womenkind  were  really  like.  In  the 
afternoon  he  had  said  to  his  mother  that  he  would  make  Margot 
understand.  What?  His  point  of  view.  He  began  to  realise 
the  difficulty  of  performing  that  feat,  and  his  depression  deepened. 
The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  the  half-hour  after  nine, 
and  the  butler  looked  in  at  the  door  to  see  if  he  could  clear 
away.  Felix  got  up  reluctantly  to  go  to  the  drawing-room.  He 
found  Margot  reading  a  book,  his  mother  doing  some  embroidery. 
As  he  came  in  Margot  laid  her  book  down.  Because  he  had 
nothing  to  say  and  felt  uncomfortable,  Felix  picked  it  up 
and  glanced  at  the  title.  It  was  Hints  to  Church  Workers,  by 
One  of  them.  He  looked  at  the  flyleaf.  On  it  was  written  in  a 
precise  but  niggling  hand:  'To  M.  W.,  from  Stephen  Bosan- 
field.' He  pressed  his  lips  tightly  together,  and  a  sudden 
obstinacy  rose  up  in  him.  He  knew  his  sister's  will  was  a  weak 
one.  He  believed  that  his  own  was  strong.  He  meant  to  find  out 
how  strong  it  was,  but  not  to-night.  The  bells  had  ceased.  It 
was  very  quiet  in  the  low  room,  as  quiet  as  in  the  little  salon  at 


G4  FELIX 

La  Maison  des  Alouettes.  He  sat  down  by  his  mother.  His 
new  determination  had  suddenly  banished  his  melancholy.  Till 
bedtime  he  talked  quite  cheerfully,  and  Mrs.  Wilding  went 
upstairs  to  her  room  at  half-past  ten  happier  than  she  had  been 
since  her  son's  arrival. 

She  depended  so  entirely  upon  her  children  for  her  happiness 
that  they  could  easily  be  her  enemies,  almost  her  destroyers. 

In  the  morning  Felix  meant  to  deliver  battle  to  his  sister. 
The  issue  could  surely  not  be  doubtful.  He  had  only  to  lay 
before  her  clearl\-,  eloquently,  some  of  the  knowledge  of  life  he 
had  gained  while  he  was  in  France.  He  had  only  to  point  out 
to  her  how  impossible  it  was  that  she  could  know  herself  yet,  or 
what  her  nature  required  to  make  it  contented.  As  he  un- 
dressed he  felt  quite  buoyant.  He  had  opened  his  window. 
Scents  came  in  to  him  from  the  dark  garden.  The  creepers 
raised  their  leaves  above  the  window-sill  as  if  to  peep  at  him. 
They  seemed  like  old  friends.  As  he  looked  out  he  could  see 
the  yellow  paths  on  which  he  had  toddled  as  a  child  and  leaped 
as  a  boy.  They  were  faint  threads  in  the  gloom.  He  heard 
the  deep  voice  of  Mab  barking  in  the  yard,  and  the  rattle  of  her 
chain.  His  mare,  Mayflower,  was  doubtless  munching  com- 
fortably in  her  warm  loose-box.  The  church  clock  struck,  and 
he  remembered  hearing  it  as  a  little  boy,  when  he  had  waked  in 
the  dead  hours  of  night.  It  had  frightened  yet  fascinated  him, 
then.  He  had  imagined  a  personality  connected  with  it,  some 
sleepless  and  melancholy  being,  that  lived  alone  in  the  church- 
yard and  did  strange  things  when  all  the  blinds  were  drawn  in 
the  village  and  no  one  walked  along  the  roads.  How  often  his 
mother  had  banished  his  fears,  comforted  him,  explained  things 
to  him.  She  had  known  so  much  more  than  he  did  once.  He 
knew  so  much  more  than  she  did  now.  So  he  believed.  That 
was  pathetic  and  almost  monstrous.  It  occurred  to  him  that, 
since  fheir  respective  situations  were  now  reversed,  he  ought  to 
be  tender  to  her  ignorance  as  she  had  once  been  tender  to  his. 
On  that  thought  he  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  was  brilliantly  fine,  and  the  sight  of  the 
sunshine  made  Felix  feel  hard  as  the  scents,  the  darkness,  the 
sound  of  the  church  clock  on  the  previous  night  had  softened 
him  and  filled  him  with  gentleness  for  the  stupidities  and 
narrowness  of  humanity.  He  went  down  to  breakfast  in  a 
determined  and  rather  pugnacious  mood,  and  began  the  day  by 
laughing  at  his  mother's  fear  of  sitting  with  the  French  window 
of  the  dining-room  open.  At  eleven  Margot  and  he  decided  to 
go  out  riding.     He  was  astute,  and  did  not  give  her  a  hint  of 


FELIX  65 

what  was  before  ber.  His  careless  brotherly  manner  put  her  at 
her  ease,  and  the  breakfast  was  a  far  gayer  meal  than  the  dinner 
of  the  previous  day  had  been.  Mrs.  Wilding,  wrapped  in  her 
shawl — for  Felix  had  carried  his  first  point,  and  the  window 
stood  open — smiled  happily  behind  the  silver  urn.  The  only 
wrinkle  in  her  roseleaf  was  that  Felix  had  not  been  down  for 
family  prayers  on  his  first  day  at  home,  but  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  alluding  to  it.     After  breakfast  Felix  said  to  his  sister  : 

'  How 's  your  singing  ? ' 

'Oh,  pretty  well,  I  think.  I've  learnt  several  new  German 
songs  lately.' 

'  Have  you  been  practising  your  exercises  regularly  ?  ' 

Margot  hesitated,  and  began  to  look  guilty. 

'Not  quite  regularly.' 

*How  often?— Three  times  a  week?' 

'Hardly  so  often  as  that.' 

'Have  you  ever  practised  them  at  all?' 

'Sometimes.' 

'Once  a  month,  I  suppose.     Well,  I  must  say!' 

He  went  off  to  see  the  horses. 

'You  really  ought  to  do  your  exercises  oftener,  Margot. 
Felix  is  quite  right,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding. 

Margot,  who  had  shown  some  inclination  to  grovel  before  her 
brother,  suddenly  shrugged  her  shoulders  petulantly  and  made 
a  clicking  sound  of  intense  irritation.  She  hated  being  '  spoken 
to'  by  any  woman,  even  her  mother,  but  could  hardly  be  made 
angry,  though  she  could  be  hurt,  by  a  scolding  from  a  man. 
She  had  never  asked  herself  why  this  was.  But  self-examination 
was  not  a  natural  process  to  her.  Going  upstairs  rather  lethargi- 
cally she  went  into  the  morning-room,  reluctantly  opened  the 
piano,  and  set  some  music  before  her.  When  Felix  came  back 
from  the  stables  he  heard  her  singing  scales,  and  smiled.  The 
sound  of  those  scales  was  a  good  augury  for  the  further  triumph 
of  his  will  over  his  sister's. 

When  Margot  and  he  were  in  the  saddle  a  wave  of  complacent 
cheerfulness  ran  over  him.  He  felt  like  a  conqueror,  as  so 
many  male  nobodies  do  in  their  own  homes.  Mrs.  Wilding 
watched  them  start  from  the  hall  door,  and  they  were  soon  in 
the  green  shadow  of  the  country  lanes.  Every  bank  and  hedge, 
every  cottase,  almost  every  tuft  of  grass  and  clump  of  fern  was 
familiar  to  Felix.  The  country  people  they  met  along  the  road 
saluted  him  with  smiles  and  keen  glances  of  curiosity.  He 
noticed  both  with  pleasure,  and  hugged  himself  in  the  thought 
that  the  real,  the  vital  change  that  had  taken  place  in  him  was 
E 


66  FELIX 

known  fully  as  yet  to  no  one  but  himself.  The  villagers,  the 
labourers,  could  only  mark  that  his  shoulders  were  broader  than 
formerly,  that  a  small  moustache  gave  manliness  to  his  face. 

'  Shall  you  ride  with  Mr.  Bosanfield  when  you  are  married, 
Margot?'  Felix  said  suddenly. 

Margot  was  startled  by  the  abruptness  of  question  and 
assumption.     She  jerked  the  curb  and  her  cob  began  to  prance. 

'Bad  for  Robin's  mouth  that !' Felix  remarked.  'Shall  you 
ride  with  him?' 

'  I — I  don't  know  that  he  rides,'  she  answered,  bending  down 
to  quiet  Robin  and  hide  her  confusion. 

'Can't  he?' 

'  I  suppose  he  can,  but  riding  isn't  everything,  even  if  he 
can't.' 

'  At  any  rate  he  bikes,  so  you  can  go  on  a  tandem  together  to 
missionary  meetings  and  parish  teas.     That  '11  be  jolly.' 

Margot  said  nothing.  Felix  stole  a  glance  at  her  and  con- 
tinued mercilessly  : 

'  But  don't  ask  him  to  take  you  to  France  for  the  honeymoon, 
whatever  you  do.  Stick  to  England  and  avoid  the  dangers  of 
the  priesthood.  And,  above  all,  never  try  to  know  anything 
about  the  world  that  lies  outside  the  parish  of — St.  Martha's, 
is  it?' 

'  St.  Mary's.' 

'  Be  narrow,  my  little  sister,  or  you  '11  never  get  on  with 
Stephen  Bosanfield.' 

'  I  don't  wish  to  go  to  France  ever,  if  it  makes  people  come 
back  changed  and — and  unkind,'  murmured  Margot. 

'  It 's  you  that 's  changed  ;  wanting  to  leave  us  for  a  fellow  you 
know  scarcely  anything  about.' 

'You  wouldn't  care  about  my  leaving  you,'  said  Margot, 
suddenly  brightening  up  and  speaking  almost  eagerly. 

She  was  singularly  free  from  vanity,  but  she  adored  feeling 
that  any  one  liked  her. 

'  That's  all  you  know  about  it,'  responded  her  brother  artfully, 

'  Do  you  mean  you  would  care  ? ' 

'Suppose  I  said  I  did,  what  then?' 

Margot  was  already  looking  at  him  with  grateful  eyes. 

'You  seemed  so  happy  to  be  away.     I  hardly  thought * 

she  began. 

Then  she  stopped. 

*I  was  happy  in  a  way — yes,'  Felix  said.  'You  see,  men  are 
not  made  to  be  always  in  one  place,  even  with  the  people  they 
care  for.     Movement   braces  them  up,  I  suppose.     Anyhow, 


FELIX  67 

they  need  it,  most  of  them.  But  all  the  same,  you  know,  they 
don't  care  to  come  home  and  find  their  sisters  keen  on  rushing 
off  to  live  with  total  strangers.' 

'It  isn't  fair  to  put  it  like  that,'  said  Margot,  half  vexed,  half 
delighted,  and  wholly  confused. 

'Especially,'  continued  her  brother,  'when  they  have  learnt 
that  to  live  rightly  one  must  live  cautiously.' 

'  You  keep  talking  as  if  you  had  learnt  so  much  in  France,' 
said  Margot.  '  But  how  could  you  in  a  little  house  buried  in 
the  country?' 

Suddenly  Felix  felt  an  impulse  to  tell  his  sister  the  tale  of  the 
world  he  had  found  in  the  forest,  hidden  in  an  old  tailor's  hut. 
But  would  she  understand?  He  glanced  at  her,  wouciering. 
Her  rosy  face  looked  a  picture  of  countrified  innocence  and 
health.  The  expression  on  it,  which  had  suddenly  become 
cheerful,  was  simple,  not  subtle.  She  looked  intelligent  and 
submissive,  but  not  imaginative  or  ardent.  Felix  wondered  very 
much  whether  she  had  any  of  his  impulse,  whether,  if  she  had  it 
not,  he  could  give  it  to  her.  Suppose  now,  while  they  rode 
through  the  shady  lanes,  he  pitted  Balzac  against  Bosanfield. 
That  would  be  a  tourney  indeed.  He  resolved  to  sound  the 
trumpet  as  a  signal  to  the  dead  novelist  and  the  live  clergyman 
to  take  to  the  lists.  Balzac  was  French,  too.  That  made  the 
affair  the  more  entertaining. 

'Margot,'  he  exclaimed,  'I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  I  got  to 
know  so  much  and  became  so  different  while  I  was  in  France. 
Perhaps  you  won't  understand,  but  still — it  all  began  with  a 
statue.' 

'A  statue?'  echoed  Margot  in  a  puzzled  voice. 

*Yes.  A  statue  that  stands  in  an  open  space  backed  by  trees 
and  fronted  by  a  fountain,  the  statue  of  one  of  the  greatest  men 
who  ever  lived.' 

Their  ride  was  a  long  one.  Mrs.  Wilding  became  quite 
anxious  about  them.  The  luncheon-gong  had  sounded  half  an 
hour  ago,  but  there  was  no  sound  of  horses'  feet  on  the  road. 
Just  as  two  o'clock  struck  they  rode  up. 

'  My  dear  children,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  'where  have  you  been? 
You  haven't  had  an  accident?' 

'  No,  mater.     But  we  went  to  Sheerwater  Forest.' 

*  All  that  way  ? ' 

'  It  suited  what  I  was  talking  about,'  said  Felix.  '  Didn't  it, 
Margot?' 

His  voice  sounded  triumphant.  Margot  looked  excited  and 
nervous. 


68  FELIX 

'Yes,'  she  replied  in  a  secretive  voice. 

'And  what  were  you  talking  about?'  asked  Mrs.  Wilding,  aa 
they  went  into  the  dining-room. 

'  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things — serious  things,'  answered  Felix  in  an 
off-hand  voice. 

His  mother  understood  that  youth  loves  to  keep  its  secrets 
sometimes  and  said  no  more.  She  was  far  too  dutiful  to  strive 
to  pull  down  the  barrier  that  stands  between  rising  and  sinking 
generations.  When  Felix  found  himself  alone  with  her  for  a 
moment  in  the  afternoon  he  said  : 

'  Don't  be  too  sure  that  Margot  will  marry  that  man  Bosan- 
field,  mater.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  looked  utterly  astonished. 

'  But,  Felix,  she  has  promised  to.' 

'  It  isn't  given  out.' 

'  Surely  that  makes  no  difference.' 

*  All  the  difference  in  the  world.  I  've  been  talking  to  her 
to-day.' 

'  But  she  loves  him.     She  told  me  so.' 

*  I  dare  say  she  did.  Margot 's  only  a  girl  without  a  will  of 
her  own.  She  'd  say  anything  a  man  asked  her  to  say.  You 
must  know  that.' 

'  But  if  she  has  changed  her  mind  it  is  terrible.  Thinlj  of 
that  poor  man.' 

'  Pooh  !  he  '11  get  over  it  all  right.  A  chap  like  that  hasn't 
the  sort  of  nature  that  dies  for  love.  Let  him  marry  a  Sunday- 
school  teacher.' 

Felix  spoke  airily.  He  was  revelling  in  this  first  definite 
exercise  of  his  will.  Mrs.  Wilding  was  surprised  by  the  hard- 
ness of  his  tone  and  manner.  If  what  he  said  were  true,  and 
Margot  were  already  wavering,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole 
family  would  be  disgraced.  Her  son's  flippant  treatment  of  so 
serious  a  matter  shocked  her.  She  was  on  the  point  of  expressing 
her  emotion  when  she  remembered  her  resolution  made  on  the 
day  of  her  husband's  death,  that  henceforth  she  must  not  allow 
full  play  to  all  her  woman's  impulses,  but  must  be  broad-minded 
and  serene,  judging  things  as  far  as  possible  from  the  man's 
standpoint.  Felix  was  growing  up.  Perhaps  it  was  not  in 
youths  of  his  age  to  comprehend  the  tragedies  of  the  affec- 
tions. She  must  not  blame  him.  But  she  felt  that  she  ought 
to  try  and  explain  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  situation 
to  him. 

'  Felix,'  she  said  very  gently,  'sit  down  for  a  moment.' 

He  flung  himself  down  near  her,  looking  gay  and  mischievous. 


FELIX  69 

His  dark  eyes  were  shining,  as  hers  never  shone,  with  a  Hght 
that  was  impudent  in  its  vivacity. 

'  Now,  mater,  it 's  no  use  your  holding  a  brief  for  the  parson,' 
he  exclaimed.     'He's  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself.' 

'  I  am  not  holding  a  brief  at  all.  I  only  wish  that  we  should 
all  do  what  is  right  and  honourable.  And  I  know  you  wish 
the  same.' 

'  Of  course.  It  would  be  jolly  wrong  and  dishonourable  for 
Margot  to  marry  a  fellow  she  wasn't  really  in  love  with.  Now 
wouldn't  it?' 

'Yes.' 

'Well,  my  blessed  old  mother,  she's  no  more  in  love  with 
Bosanfield  than  I  am  with  Banbury  Cross.' 

'  Are  you  sure,  Felix  ?  ' 

'Certain.  Why,  in  half  an  hour  I  turned  her  right  round 
and ' 

'Yes,  but  you  know  that  Margot  is  easily  led,  and  that  she 
never  could  resist  you.' 

Felix  smiled  complacently. 

'  She  can  be  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  when  she  likes.  Look 
at  her  exercises.  She  won't  practise  them  steadily  whatever 
I  say.' 

'  Ah,  but  that 's  a  trifle.  In  important  things  she  can't  make 
up  her  mind.' 

'  Then  I  '11  make  it  up  for  her.  In  fact  I  've  done  so,  and 
I've  decided  that  she  has  decided  not  to  marry ' 

'  Mr.  Bosanfield,'  said  the  butler,  opening  the  drawing-room 
door. 

Both  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Felix  flushed  red.  The  clergyman 
came  in  calmly.  Felix  was  struck  by  his  complete  self-posses- 
sion. Though  possibly  narrow,  he  was  certainly  not  weak.  He 
looked  at  them  both  with  his  small,  steady  eyes,  and  evidently 
did  not  fail  to  note  their  confusion.  Felix  wondered  whether 
it  was  his  observation  of  their  discomfort  which  led  him  to 
open  the  interview  with  a  very  startling  remark. 

*  I  thought  it  only  right  and  proper,'  he  said,  as  he  shook 
hands  cordially  with  Mrs.  Wilding,  '  to  take  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  furthering  my  acquaintance  with  your  son  in  my  new 
character.  Yesterday,  when  I  was  here,  he  probably  did  not 
know  that  I  am  his  future  brother-in-law.  To-day  I  have  no 
doubt  he  does.' 

He  grasped  Felix's  hand  and  sat  down  beside  him.  Felix 
gasped.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  stinging  blow  in  the 
face.     But  even  while  he  staggered  under  it  he  was  aware  of 


70  FELIX 

a  queer  thought  that  flashed  through  his  mind.  It  was — 'This 
man  will  certainly  be  a  bishop  if  he  lives.'  Mrs.  Wilding,  who 
was  no  dissembler,  had  become  quite  pale.  She  looked  at  her 
son  without  saying  a  word.  And  just  then,  to  complete  the 
awkwardness  of  the  situation,  Margot  came  in  carrying  a  case 
of  music.  When  she  saw  who  was  there  she  let  the  case  fall. 
Mr.  Bosanfield  sprang  to  pick  it  up, 

'  I  have  come  to  receive  your  brother's  congratulations,'  he 
said,  taking  her  hand  possessively. 

Then  Felix  understood  that  he  had  been  far  less  astute  than 
the  clergyman,  who  had  evidently  divined  that  there  was  an 
enemy  in  the  camp,  and  resolved  to  attack  him  vigorously 
before  he  was  prepared  for  the  battle. 

Margot  was  frankly  petrified.  She  cast  a  beseeching  glance 
at  her  brother,  but  Felix  was  staring  out  of  the  window. 

'  Let  me  put  your  music  on  the  piano,  Margot,'  continued 
Mr.  Bosanfield. 

Felix  jerked  round  on  his  chair  and  looked  at  him  almost 
menacingly,  while  Margot  meekly  watched  him  laying  down 
the  case. 

'  Your  son  does  know  ? '  continued  Mr.  Bosanfield,  addressing 
Mrs.  Wilding. 

'Yes,  I  told  him  yesterday,'  she  answered  truthfully. 

'  I  dare  say  you  were  surprised,'  said  Mr.  Bosanfield  to 
Felix. 

'  I  was  very  much  surprised,'  he  replied,  with  almost  fierce 
bluntness. 

'  I  can  hardly  expect  you  to  be  delighted,  since  I  am  a 
stranger  to  you.  But  I  hope,  and  think,  that  when  we  know 
each  other  more  intimately,  as  no  doubt  we  soon  shall,  and 
when  you  are  able  to  see  how  well  fitted  your  dear  sister  and  I 
are  to  make  each  other  happy,  you  will  rejoice  with  us  as  your 
mother  already  has.' 

'  My  mother  has  rejoiced,  you  say?'  Felix  exclaimed  abruptly. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  as  if  his  mother  were  his 
enemy. 

'  I  naturally  was  glad  in  Margot's  happiness,  Felix,'  Mrs. 
Wilding  said  anxiously. 

Felix,  who  had  been  thinking  rapidly  ever  since  the  clergy- 
man had  come  into  the  room,  and  who  had  by  this  time 
completely  grasped  the  situation  and  comprehended  the  tactics 
of  h's  opponent,  was  filled  with  a  boy's  fury.  He  said  to 
hims  If  that  he  was  being  made  a  fool  of.  His  heart  beat  fast 
with  excitement,  and  he  was  filled  with  a  passionate  disregard 


FELIX  71 

of  the  convenances^  of  consequences,  of  the  feelings  of  his 
people, 

'Margot  doesn't  know  whether  it  will  make  her  happy  to 
marry  any  one,' he  said  in  a  loud  and  uneven  voice.  'She 
told  me  so  this  morning  when  we  were  riding  in  Sheerwater 
Forest.' 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  If  Felix  had  been  quite  truthful 
the  form  of  his  statement  would  have  been  slightly  different. 
It  was  really  he  who  had  repeatedly  insisted  to  Margot  that  she 
did  not  know  what  would  make  her  happy.  Eventually  she  had 
vaguely  agreed  that  it  was  possible  to  make  mistakes  as  to  one's 
feelings.     Her  lover  turned  towards  her. 

'  You  said  that  to  your  brother  ? '  he  asked. 

His  voice  was  quite  firm. 

'  Margot,  you  know  you * 

But  here  Mrs.  Wilding  broke  in  with  unusual  authority. 

'  Felix,  I  think  Margot  ought  to  answer  for  herself,'  she  said. 

Felix  bit  his  lip  and  was  silent.  He  looked  at  his  sister, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed  imploringly  on  Mr.  Bosanfield. 

'Come,  Margot,'  the 'clergyman  said  quietly;  'you  owe  it 
to  the  man  who  loves  you  to  be  quite  frank.  Do  you  think 
you  were  making  a  mistake  when  you  accepted  me  as  your 
future  husband?' 

'  No,'  she  murmured. 

'Then  your  brother  must  have  misunderstood  you  this 
morning?' 

•  I  only  meant  that — that  it  is  impossible  absolutely  to  know 
beforehand  what — what  is  going  to  bring  one  happiness.  I  did 
say  that,  Felix.' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you  said,'  he  answered  brusquely. 

He  sprang  up  and  went  out  of  the  room.  He  had  read  his 
defeat  in  his  sister's  eyes. 


CHAPTER    VI 

FELIX  had  returned  from  France  feeling  vaguely  that  the 
knowledge  he  had  acquired  there  must  make  a  consider- 
able difference  in  his  home  relations.  He  had  meant  to  show 
his  mother  and  sister  how  simple  they  were;  to  make  ihem, 
perhaps,  self-conscious  in  their  ignorance.  He  had  laid 
plans,  calm  in  the  youthful  certainty  of  his  own  superiority. 
That  certainty  he  still  possessed ;  but  the  plans  were  shat- 
tered by  the  introduction  of  Mr.  Bosanfield  into  the  family 
circle,  and  by  the  definite  defeat  he  had  inflicted  upon  Felix. 
For  his  marriage  with  Margot  was  assured  from  the  moment 
when  he  gave  battle  openly  to  her  brother.  Margot,  having 
been  forced  to  take  a  line,  showed  unexpected  firmness  of 
purpose.  Doubtless  she  was  comfortably  aware  of  the 
unyielding  nature  of  her  clerical  ally,  and  also,  as  Felix 
soon  perceived  with  wondering  contempt,  she  was  very  much 
in  love  with  Stephen  Bosanfield,  and  showed  her  affection 
with  a  mingled  shyness  and  pride  which  were  transparently 
childish  and  countrified.  She  was,  in  truth,  overwhelmed  with 
humble  surprise  and  gratification  at  finding  herself  loved.  She 
had  not  dared  to  expect  such  a  joy,  having  a  most  pitiful 
opinion  of  her  attractions.  The  tender  triumph  that  con- 
sequently invaded  her  soul  enabled  her  even  to  brave  the 
dissatisfaction  of  Felix  with  a  certain  wavering  hardihood, 
once  she  had  finally  cast  in  her  lot  with  the  determined 
clergyman. 

Mr.  Bosanfield  was  very  determined.  Having  routed  the 
enemy  in  the  first  engagement,  he  lost  no  time  in  endeavour- 
ing to  persuade  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot  to  fix  the  wedding 
day.  Felix  made  no  attempt  at  opposition.  He  would  not 
enter  into  the  matter  at  all,  but  kept  himself  entirely  aloof 
from  the  question,  much  to  his  mother's  distress.  In  vain 
she  tried  to  draw  him  into  the  family  conclave,  to  consult 
him  as  the  man  of  the  party  who  would  naturally  be  looked  to 
for  a  decision  by  the  women.     Felix  replied  curtly  : 

•  Settle  it  all  your  own  way,  mater.     I  don't  care  what  you 

72 


FELIX  78 

do.  They  can  marry  to-morrow  as  far  as  I  'm  concerned.  It 
makes  no  difference  to  me.' 

He  isolated  himself  as  much  as  possible  at  this  time,  was 
continually  on  horseback,  and  strove  to  live  in  himself  and,  by 
laying  plans  for  the  future,  to  get  away  from  the  present. 

The  future — that  was  his  companion  while  he  rode,  singing 
to  himself  the  silent  songs  of  freedom.  For  as  soon  as  Margot 
was  married,  he  meant  to  tell  his  mother  of  his  resolve  to  go 
to  London  and  live  there.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  turmoil 
created  in  her  simple  life  by  Margot's  engagement  and  the  pre- 
parations for  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Wilding  would  no  doubt  have 
thought  it  her  duty  to  discuss  with  Felix  the  subject  of  his 
career.  Indeed,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  preoccupation,  she 
found  time  to  think  much  and  anxiously  of  her  son.  But  his 
vexation  at  the  marriage  had  rendered  him  so  unapproachable 
that  she  timidly  put  off  any  discussion,  lest  she  might  seem 
desirous  of  forcing  an  intimacy  which  he  seemed  at  present 
determined  to  avoid.  Mrs.  Wilding  was  exquisitely  sensitive 
although  she  seemed  so  calm,  so  definitely  English.  Since 
his  return  her  son  had  chosen  to  play  the  part  of  a  stranger  in 
his  home.  He  treated  his  mother  with  formality,  Margot  with 
indifference.  Mrs.  Wilding  excused  his  conduct  with  the  pas- 
sionate generosity  of  a  mother,  telling  herself  that  it  was  really 
prompted  by  his  affection  for  his  sister,  and  consequent,  almost 
angry,  distress  at  the  prospect  of  losing  her.  When  the  blow 
had  fallen,  when  that  which  was  now  impending  became  an  actual 
fact,  she  trusted,  prayed,  that  Felix  would  resign  himself  with  a 
good  grace  to  the  inevitable,  and  that  at  least  she  would  feel  at 
ease  with  him  once  more.  At  present  she  found  herself  foiled 
in  every  gentle  attempt  to  draw  near  to  him,  to  be  to  him  what 
she  had  once  been.  AH  naturalness,  all  comprehension,  all  quiet 
cheerfulness  had  departed  from  their  intercourse  since  the  day 
when  Mr.  Bosanfield  had  established  his  position  in  the  house- 
hold as  Margot's  future  husband. 

In  France  Felix  had  meant  to  tell  his  mother  of  the  change 
in  him,  to  explain  to  her  how  it  had  been  brought  about.  He 
had  intended  boldly  to  attack  her  ignorance  with  his  knowledge. 
If  he  had  done  so  Mrs.  Wilding  might  possibly  have  been 
alarmed,  and  would  most  certainly  have  been  worsted  in  argu- 
ment. But  at  least  she  would  have  had  the  satisfaction  of 
feeling  that  her  son  trusted  her;  that  if  he  was  changed, 
he  wished  her  to  comprehend  his  transformation.  Margot's 
engagement  kept  him  silent.  He  felt  too  hostile,  too  wronged, 
to  speak.     At  this  time  he  would  rather  have  talked  intimately 


74  FELIX 

with  one  of  his  mother's  servants  than  with  either  of  the  women 
who  loved  him. 

The  old  tailor  alone  with  his  books  in  the  forest  was  far 
nearer  to  him  than  they  were  or  ever  could  be.  So  he  told 
himself,  forgetting,  in  his  impatient  anger,  a  thousand  sweet 
circumstances  of  his  old  child-life,  circumstances  slight,  ordin- 
ary, perhaps  even  trivial,  but  which  bind  far  closer  than  we 
often  realise  our  hearts  to  the  hearts  of  those  whom  we  speak 
of  carelessly  as  '  our  people.' 

His  relations  with  his  future  brother-in-law  were  frigidly 
polite  and  as  perfunctory  as  he  could  make  them.  Stephen 
Bosanfield,  however,  gradually  discovered  to  him  a  character  of 
such  singular  self-possession  and  vigorous,  if  narrow,  pertinacity, 
that  Felix,  half  unconsciously,  began  to  feel  that  this  deter- 
mined priest  had  a  certain  force  which  compelled  at  least  some 
answering  respect. 

He  several  times  joined  Felix  in  walks,  and  talked  with 
cheerful  dryness  about  France,  the  differences  which  he  sup- 
posed to  exist  between  different  nations,  and  the  curious  habits 
and  customs  of  those  who  were  not  so  fortunate  as  to  have  been 
born  and  reared  in  England.  Felix  responded  with  equally 
dry  civility.  On  the  dampest  day  dust  surely  circled  about 
the  walkers.  Felix,  at  any  rate,  fancifully  perceived  it.  He 
thought  of  his  long  conversations  with  the  tailor.  Now  he  knew 
fully  how  much  he  had  enjoyed  them.  Yet  his  sister  loved, 
actually  loved  this  man  with  the  red  face,  the  intent  eyes,  the 
pointed  ears. 

These  ears  attracted  and  held  the  attention  of  Felix  more 
than  the  discourse  of  their  owner.  Mr.  Bosanfield  had  a  power 
of  moving  them  slightly  up  and  down,  sometimes  together, 
sometimes  separately,  and  a  habit,  probably  quite  unconscious, 
of  putting  this  power  into  action.  There  was,  to  Felix,  some- 
thing very  disgusting  in  this  trick.  He  was  continually  on  the 
look-out  for  it,  and  one  day  spoke  of  it  to  Margot. 

'  Why  does  Bosanfield  wag  his  ears  like  that? '  he  said. 

'  What  do  you  mean,  FeJix  ? '  said  Margot,  with  anxious  haste, 
and  a  sort  of  quick,  soft  defiance. 

'You  know  well  enough,  Margot.  He's  always  doing  it. 
But  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  it  as  you  've  chosen  to  spend 
your  life  with  it.     I  couldn't.' 

'  We  all  have — have  little  habits  of  our  own.* 

•  Of  course  ;  but  thank  Heaven  we  don't  all  wag  our  ears.' 

'  I  'm  sure  Stephen  scarcely  ever ' 

•Oh,   don't  let's  talk  about  it!'   cried  Felix  impatiently, 


FELIX  75 

suddenly  becoming  aware  of  the  futility,  almost  the  idiocy,  of 
the  conversation,  and  hating  himself  for  having  begun  it.  *I 
expect  we  are  one  and  all  descended  from  monkeys,  and 
oughtn't  to  be  too  particular.  Oh,  1  know  you  are  going  to  say 
that  Stephen  never  could  have  been  descended  from  a  monkey. 
Well,  perhaps  he  is  the  great  exception,  and  that's  why  you 
adore  him.     Fix  the  wedding  day  and  get  it  over.' 

He  ran  out  of  the  room  before  she  could  reply.  Outside 
the  door  he  asked  himself  whether  he  was  an  imbecile  to  be  so 
vividly  affected  by  such  small  things,  such  trifles.  But  were 
they  trifles?  He  began  just  then  to  understand  that  to  be 
observant  adds  to  the  pain  of  life.  Margot  could  not  certainly 
be  observant.  And  his  mother?  But  by  this  time  he  was  in 
the  stables  and  began  talking  horses  to  the  groom. 

The  wedding  day  was  fixed  for  the  first  week  in  August. 
Felix  kept  himself  apart  from  the  preparations,  and  in  con- 
sequence Mrs.  Wilding  had  to  work  very  hard,  organising, 
arranging,  inviting.  She  was  not  a  strong  woman.  A  little 
assistance  from  her  son  would  have  been  very  grateful  to  her  tired 
body,  but  far  more  grateful  to  her  mother's  heart.  This  period 
was  a  period  of  great  sadness  for  her.  In  losing  Margot  she 
was  losing  her  constant  companion.  When  her  husband  died 
a  terrible  loneliness  had  come  down  like  a  cloud  upon  her,  and 
in  the  first  agony  of  that  loss  she  had  thought  that  she  tasted 
the  ultimate  bitterness  of  desolation.  But  then  she  had  her 
children.  They  were  very  young,  still  deliciously  dependent 
upon  her,  ready  to  confide  in  her.  She  knew  quietly  that  she 
was  intensely  necessary  to  them,  and  that  knowledge  gave  her 
strength,  even  joy.  Now  she  began  to  think  that  she  was  no 
longer  necessary  to  them  or  to  any  one.  Margot  had  found  a 
lover  who  was  soon  to  be  a  husband.  That  was  natural,  and 
Mrs.  Wilding,  always  pathetically  unselfish,  stifled  her  pain 
and  really  rejoiced  with  her  child.  But  P^lix — he  had  found 
nothing,  and  yet  the  mere  fact  of  his  years  now  seemed  to  set 
a  barrier  between  him  and  his  mother.  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
in  his  way.  Felix  thought  her  unobservant,  crudely  attributing 
all  the  observant  power  of  the  family  to  himself,  but  she  was 
acutely  conscious  of  his  new  young  disdain  of  her  intellect,  of 
her  simplicity,  and,  being  so  humble,  instead  of  condemning  him 
for  it,  thought  that  no  doubt  it  was  inevitable  now  that  he  had 
grown  up.  Silently  she  acquiesced  in  this  supposed  natural  law. 
She  did  not  murmur  against  it  for  a  moment.  But  there  was 
an  ache  in  her  heart  as  she  concerned  herself  with  the  endless 
details  of  a  big  country  wedding,  and,  as  the  day  drew  near,  she 


76  FELIX 

felt  so  tired  that  sometimes  she  could  scarcely  see  the  cards  on 
which  she  was  writing  invitations,  or  the  presents  which  she 
was  taking  out  of  their  boxes  and  coverings. 

Mr.  Bosanfield  was  most  dutifully  affectionate  to  her.  He 
always  treated  her  with  marked  respert  and  solicitude,  and 
sometimes  irritated  Felix  by  showing  iicr  an  anxious  polite- 
ness which  set  his  own  carelessness  in  an  unfavourable  light. 
He  sprang  to  open  the  door  when  she  was  leaving  the  room  ; 
arranged  a  footstool  for  her  feet  when  she  sat  down  ;  put  the 
icewool  shawl  carefully  round  her  shoulders  if  she  said  that  it 
seemed  a  little  colder  than  usual — which  she  very  often  did ; 
brought  her  the  newspaper  or  sought  for  the  book  she  was  read- 
ing. She  thanked  him  most  gratefully.  But  how  she  wished 
that  these  little  attentions  had  come  from  Felix.  From  him 
each  one  would  have  been  a  precious  gift. 

The  intense  feeling  of  reserve  which  dominated  Felix  through 
all  this  period  prevented  him  from  doing  these  very  small  and 
simple  things,  not  because  he  thought  them  unnecessary — at 
heart  he  could  not  be  anything  but  a  gentleman — but  because 
in  doing  them  he  w;)uld  have  had  the  sensation  of  drawing  near 
to  his  mother.  And  something  autocratic  in  his  soul  bade  him 
be  a  solitary  in  this  home  which,  he  told  himself,  no  longer 
suited  him.  The  buzz  of  preparation  which  pervaded  the 
house,  a  homely,  eminently  human  buzz,  had  the  same  sort  of 
effect  on  his  mind  as  frost  has  on  a  flower.  When  he  over- 
heard his  mother  talking  with  the  maids  about  the  amount  of 
table-linen  that  would  be  wanted  for  the  wedding  breakfast, 
or  speaking  to  the  builer  about  the  silver,  or  the  wine,  to  the 
gardener  about  the  flowers  for  the  decorations,  to  the  cook 
about  cakes  and  puddings,  his  lips  curled  with  a  sort  of  superior 
disgust  at  which  he  himself  was  faintly  astonished.  The  atmo- 
sphere of  the  whole  business  was  fiercely  antagonistic  to  him. 
He  longed  to  fight  his  way  out  of  it  all.  He  shut  himself  up 
for  hours  in  his  room,  and  plunged  once  more  into  the  Comedie 
Hutnaine.  But  as  he  turned  the  pages  of  that  murmuring 
book  of  life,  he  found  himself  longing  for  his  old  reading-place; 
for  the  ruined  chapel  in  the  garden  of  La  Maison  des  Alouettes, 
the  little,  stealthy,  busy  insects  moving  patiently  through  their 
quivering  minute  jungle  of  creepers,  the  birds  that  perched  on 
the  arches  of  the  shattered  windows,  even  the  sound  of  the 
Angelus  bell.  The  bell  of  the  yellow  church  across  the  road 
chimed.     He  heard  it  impatiently. 

•Mary,' said  his  mother's  voice  somewhere  in  the  house.  'Maryl' 

*  Yes,  ma'am,'  replied  a  servant's  voice. 


FELIX  77 

'  How  many  of  those  damask  napkins  have  you  ?  We  shall 
want ' 

Felix  stopped  his  ears. 

'  London — London — London,'  he  repeated  through  his  teeth, 
shutting  his  eyes  tightly. 

In  the  darkness  his  will  had  made  for  him  he  saw  again  the 
great  river  at  Tours,  the  dolls  on  its  banks  bending  above  their 
thin  black  lines,  the  crowded  mass  of  tree-tops  on  the  island 
where  the  music  was.  How  fast  the  water  ran  between  the 
arches.  He  heard  again  the  bugle  from  the  barracks,  and,  once 
more,  all  the  beauties,  the  mysteries,  the  passions,  and  the 
sorrows  of  life  seemed  to  flow  together  and  to  pass  murmuring 
through  his  heart  as  the  river  passed  murmuring  through  the 
arches  of  the  bridge.  And  he  longed  with  a  vehemence  that  was 
fierce  to  get  away  from  this  house  in  which  he  was  born,  to  go 
out — far,  far  out — and  find  beauty,  mystery,  passion,  sorrow. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  it  is  not  always  necessary 
to  travel  on  distant  roads  to  meet  them  face  to  face.  His  youth 
was  fascinated  by  the  idea  of  remoteness  with  which  he  connected 
romance.  He  chafed  when  the  arrival  of  certain  g'Jc  ~ts  who 
were  to  stay  in  the  house  for  the  wedding  obliged  him  to  come 
out  of  his  shell  and  play  the  part  of  host.  But  he  endeavoured 
to  console  himself  by  the  thought  that  now  it  would  soon  be 
over  and  he  would  be  free. 

On  the  night  before  the  marriage  there  was  a  big  family-dinner, 
to  which,  as  well  as  various  Wilding  relations,  and  one  of  Mrs. 
Wilding's  brothers,  Stephen  Bosanfield's  father  and  mother 
were  invited.  Felix  prepared  to  go  down  to  it  as  an  acidulated 
martyr  to  the  stake.  Poor  Margot  was  in  a  condition  of  rather 
painful  excitement  and  nervousness.  She  was,  though  so  humble, 
exceedingly  self-conscious,  and  her  devouring  anxiety  to  find 
adequate  favour  in  the  sight  of  Stephen's  kith  and  kin  rendered 
her  at  this  juncture  dewily  agitated.  As  she  dressed  for  dinner 
she  felt  that  her  personal  appearance  was  most  ridiculous,  and 
that  no  energy  of  intellect  or  brightness  of  talent  made  amends 
in  her  for  her  extraordinary  lack  of  beauty.  How  Stephen  could 
have  succeeded  in  caring  about  her  amazed  her  more  than  ever. 
She  greatly  feared  that  his  family  would  be  even  more  astonished 
at  his  achievement  than  she  was.  Her  round  cheeks  were 
flushed,  and  she  was  almost  tearful  with  modesty  when  at  length, 
qfter  many  meek  and  self-condemnatory  looks  into  the  glass, 
she  turned  to  go  to  the  drawing-room.  On  the  landing  outside 
her  bedroom  door  she  came  suddenly  upon  her  brother,  who, 
immaculately  dressed,  was  on  the  way  down. 


78  FELIX 

*  Oh,  Felix ! '  she  said,  starting. 
'What's  the  matter?' 

*  I  didn't  know  you  were  there.' 

She  saw  his  bright  eyes  fixed  on  her  critically  with  a  brother's 
look. 

'  Do  I — do  I  look  very  bad  ? '  she  murmured. 

*  Bad  ?     No,  very  nice.' 

He  spoke  kindly.  A  sudden  softness  had  come  to  him 
unexpectedly  at  the  sight  of  his  sister  on  this  last  evening  of 
her  maiden  life.  He  looked  into  her  intelligent,  anxious  brown 
eyes,  and  a  number  of  confused,  childish  memories  passed, 
tangled,  through  his  mind  swiftly.  He  remembered  going  out 
to  pick  periwinkles  in  spring  with  Margot ;  having  the  measles 
with  Margot ;  playing  at  bears  with  her  and  an  anaemic  house- 
maid long  since  dead  ;  being  slapped  by  her  for  disobeying  some 
autocratic  command,  given  by  her  in  very  early  days,  when  she 
was  wont  to  presume  on  her  more  mature  age  ere  she  grew  up 
into  her  present  humble-mindedness.  It  was  all  over,  that 
time. 

'  Dear  old  Margot,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  still  looking  at 
her. 

The  dim,  familiar  landing  seemed  to  him  just  then  to  be 
bathed  in  an  atmosphere  profoundly  pathetic.  They  were  both 
enveloped  in  it.  Margot's  round  face  worked.  A  sort  of  anxious 
hesitation,  mingled  with  almost  childlike  pleasure,  appeared  on 
it.     Two  tears  fell  on  her  cheeks. 

'Oh,  Felix!'  she  said  in  a  husky  voice,  *I  did  so  want — it's 
awful  leaving  you,  and  I  thought  you  didn't  mind.' 

She  kissed  him  awkwardly,  but  with  a  sort  of  passionate 
gratitude,  then  hurried  back  into  her  bedroom  to  try  to  recover 
herself  before  going  downstairs.  And,  standing  alone  on  the 
landing,  Felix  felt  again,  as  he  had  felt  one  day  in  the  garden, 
that  there  were  mysteries  hidden  even  in  his  own  sister,  that 
even  such  transparent  simplicity  as  hers  floated  above  strange, 
almost  impenetrable  reserves. 

He  went  down  slowly. 

Mrs.  Wilding  was  already  in  the  drawing-room  with  two  or 
three  guests  who  were  staying  in  the  house :  her  brother,  an 
Indian  judge  home  on  leave,  handsome  but  sun-dried,  with  keen 
eyes  and  a  slightly  legal  manner ;  his  daughter,  who  was  going 
to  be  a  bridesmaid,  but  took  the  honour  coolly ;  and  a  female 
cousin,  devoted  to  good  works,  but  singularly  incapable  of 
arranging  her  hair  in  any  known,  neat,  or  fashionable  style. 
Mrs.  Wilding's  face  was  pale,  and  her  soft  eyes  were  full  of 


FELIX  79 

sadness  and  fatigue.  But  she  made  a  brave  effort  to  seem  cheer- 
ful, and  FeHx  did  not  notice  anything  amiss.  He  joined  in  the 
family  talk,  self-consciously  dutiful,  proud  of  his  internal 
boredom.  When  Margot  came  in  three  or  four  minutes  later 
she  glanced  at  him  with  shy  consciousness,  but  he  did  not  look 
at  her,  and  soon  the  arrival  of  her  fiance  with  his  parents 
monopolised  her  attention,  and  threw  her  into  an  agony  of 
deprecating  vivacity. 

Even  in  his  first  moment  of  fury  against  Margot's  parson — as 
he  called  Stephen  Bosanfield  to  himself  contemptuously — Felix 
had  not  thought  him  otherwise  than  a  gentleman,  and  his  father 
and  mother,  though  exceedingly,  perhaps  needlessly,  respectable, 
were  quite  presentable. 

His  mother  was  rather  markedly  clerical.  She  had,  no  doubt, 
moved  so  perpetually  in  high  Anglican  circles  that  she  felt 
priestly  despite  her  sex  and  the  homilies  of  St.  Paul.  Her 
husband,  a  capacious  archdeacon,  with  a  cathedral  beard,  though 
obviously  an  excellent  and  truly  moral  dignitary,  was  slightly 
less  orthodox  in  appearance  than  his  admirable  wife.  The  sense 
of  humour  denied  to  his  son  was  apparent  in  his  gently  twinkling 
eyes. 

Stephen  Bosanfield  was  calm,  precise,  intent  as  ever.  Evidently 
he  was  not  a  man  to  be  upset  by  so  correct  an  incident  as  a 
marriage,  even  though  it  was  his  own.  Felix  glanced  at  him 
with  some  amazement.  His  decent  phlegm  was  really  almost 
impressive  at  such  a  time.  It  was  quite  unnecessary  for  Margot 
to  be  so  anxious  about  herself  since  her  lover  was  so  obviously 
convinced  of  the  excellence  of  his  choice.  Yet  she  was  anxious. 
At  this  moment  she  was  busily  engaged  in  smiling  nervously,  yet 
hopefully  too,  at  her  future  father-in-law,  who,  with  benign 
urbanity,  was  giving  her  certain  directions  for  the  keeping  of 
Stephen  in  proper  order.  Felix  heard  his  gentlemanly  bass 
voice  saying : 

'You  must  not  let  him  run  wild  about  the  parish  on  any 
account.' 

'  Margot's  reply  was  hasty  and  voluble,  and  complicated  by 
ingratiating  laughter.  The  archdeacon  evidently  understood  her 
nervousness  and  forgave  it.  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Mrs.  Bosanfield, 
sitting  side  by  side  on  a  sofa,  were  conversing  amicably.  The 
latter  had  jet-black  hair  arranged  in  glossy  bands,  a  brick-red 
complexion  like  her  son's,  and  prominent  eyes  that  looked 
ritualistic.  Her  mouth  was  very  small  and  her  lips  pouted, 
giving  to  her  face  a  slight  expression  of  peevishness,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  scold  some  one.     She  had  been  born  in  a  cathedral 


80  FELIX 

close,  and  had  lived  most  of  her  life  in  one,  and  was  proud  of 
it.  At  present  she  was  speaking  about  choir-boys  and  their 
ways.  It  was  quite  evident  that  what  she  did  not  know  about 
choir-boys  was  not  worth  knowing.  She  threw  in  one  or  two 
maxims  in  which  the  proper  mode  of  dealing  with  church 
organists  was  as  it  were  crystallised,  then  passed  on  to  a  ripe 
consideration  of  the  minor  canon's  career  and  duties.  Felix 
realised  from  which  side  of  his  family  Stephen  inherited  his 
self-possession  and  lack  of  humour.  Mrs.  Wilding  listened  to 
the  words  that  came  from  the  little  pouting  mouth  with  the 
gentlest  attention,  and  Stephen  stood  by,  his  long,  reddish  hands 
folded  across  his  straight  black  coat,  an  expression  of  filial 
satisfaction  upon  his  face,  which,  as  always,  looked  half  clergy- 
man's half  groom's.  Time  wore  on,  yet  dinner  was  not  announced. 
Felix,  who  was  hugging  himself  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  of  superior 
boredom,  went  up  to  his  mother  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

'Aren't  we  ready  for  dinner?' 

'We  are  waiting  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ismey,'  she  replied. 

'  Who  are  they  ? ' 

'Friends  of  Stephen's.' 

At  this  moment  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and  the  butler 
announced  : 

'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ismey.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  got  up  from  her  sofa,  and  Felix  turned  towards 
the  door  expecting  to  see  more  people  from  precinct,  close,  or 
rectory.  In  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  the  wedding  preparations 
his  mother  had  evidently  forgotten  to  mention  that  these  friends 
were  coming.  The  butler  stood  on  one  side,  and  a  satirical- 
looking  woman  walked  slowly  in,  followed  by  a  tall,  middle-aged 
man,  with  thick,  wavy,  grey  hair  and  melancholy  eyes. 

Mrs.  Ismey  looked  perhaps  thirty-two  years  old.  She  was 
about  the  middle  height,  very  sUm,  very  well  made,  with 
beautiful  hands  and  feet.  Her  face  was  certainly  not  handsome, 
but  it  was  expressive  and  entertaining.  The  eyes  were  large 
and  hazel,  yellowish,  that  is,  with  dull,  greenish-brown  rims, 
vivacious  and  shining,  vet  critical  if  not  cruel.  Her  nose  was 
rather  long  and  slight  y  turned  up.  Her  mouth  was  not  small 
but  it  was  prettily  curved,  and  she  had  lovely  little  teeth.  Her 
eyebrows  were  very  thick  and  straight.  Her  hair,  too,  was  very 
thick  and  light  brown.  It  was  done  on  the  top  of  her  head  and 
puffed  out  at  the  front  and  sides,  and  Felix  noticed  that  each 
hair  looked  independent  and  alive,  as  if  it  was  naturally 
rebellious,  but  for  to-night  was  governed  by  the  dominating  art 
of  a  singularly  clever  coiffeur.     She   was  dressed  in  a  very 


FELIX  81 

perfectly  fitting  but  plainly  made  dress  of  dull  green-and-gold 
brocade,  and  carried  a  very  large  green-and-gold  fan  half  open. 
As  she  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Wilding  she  apologised  for  being 
late. 

'You  see  we  are  strangers  in  this  neighbourhood,'  she 
explained;  'and  the  porter  at  the  hotel  said  it  would  only 
take  twenty  minutes  to  drive  from  the  Wells  here.  We  were 
credulous.     I  am  so  sorry.' 

Her  voice  was  light  and  clear,  rather  drawling  and  composed. 
Mr.  Ismey,  with  a  sudden  and  very  sweet  smile,  which  some- 
how made  him  look  even  sadder  than  before,  added  his 
apologies  to  his  wife's,  and  Mrs.  Wilding  introduced  Felix 
and  Margot. 

Mrs.  Ismey,  who  had  glanced  round  the  drawing-room  with 
an  air  of  unexpectant  scrutiny,  ran  her  eyes  over  Margot's 
shining,  anxious  face  with  quick  carelessness,  while  she  mur- 
mured a  word  of  polite  congratulation  on  the  approaching 
wedding.  But  when  Felix  was  presented  to  her  she  looked  at 
him  very  differently.  As  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  her  eyes 
first  met  his,  their  expression  was  languid,  though  direct,  as  if 
their  owner  could  not  help  being  observant,  but  was  far  from 
being  disposed  to  take  the  slightest  interest  in  any  one  at  Hill 
House.  Directly  she  saw  Felix  fully  her  face  changed, 
brightened.  Sharp  interrogation  shone  in  her  eyes,  interroga- 
tion so  humorous,  so  searching,  that  Felix  felt  himself  blushing 
boyishly,  and  was  angry  with  himself.  They  had  no  time  to 
talk,  for  dinner  was  immediately  announced,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  offer  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Bosanfield  and  escort  her  to 
the  dining-room.  She  waddled  in  walking,  being  plump,  held 
her  back  very  straight,  and  looked  as  if  she  were  heading  some 
ecclesiastical  procession.  Felix  wished  her  at  Jericho,  and 
groaned  in  spirit  at  the  prospect  before  him.  He  was  surprised 
and  uneasily  delighted  when,  on  sitting  down  at  the  head  of  the 
long  table,  he  found  Mrs.  Ismey  on  his  other  side.  She  had 
come  in  with  the  Indian  judge.  She  glanced  at  Felix  whimsi- 
cally as  she  unfolded  her  napkin.  He  thought  she  was  going  to 
speak,  but  just  then  Mrs.  Bosanfield  addressed  him,  and  he  had 
to  turn  to  her. 

'  You  are  fortunate  in  being  so  near  the  church,'  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  firm  and  decisive,  issuing  sharply  from  her 
little  pouting  mouth. 

'Yes,'  said  Felix,  'we  aren't  far.' 

He  felt  the  rejoinder  was  inept,  but  he  did  not  care.  He 
knew  instinctively  that  good  Mrs.  Bosanfield  and  he  could  have 
r 


82  FELIX 

nothing  in  common,  and  judged  any  effort  to  draw  near  to  her, 

or  to  be  entertaining  in  her  conversational  mode,  foredoomed  to 
failure.  She  sipped  her  soup  in  a  very  practical  manner,  nip- 
ping the  spoon  tightly,  and  keeping  the  little  finger  of  her  right 
hand  stiffly  extended. 

'  Do  you  intend  to  enter  the  church  ? '  she  inquired,  rolling 
her  prominent  eyes  round  the  table  in  a  glance  that  seemed 
to  demand  forthwith  their  final  confession  from  those  she 
looked  at, 

'  To-morrow  ?  of  course.  I  am  going  to  give  my  sister  away,' 
returned  Felix  in  amazement. 

He  had  not  been  able  to  get  out  of  this  very  uncongenial 
duty,  although  he  had  only  agreed  to  perform  it  with  cold 
ungraciousness. 

'You  don't  grasp  my  meaning,' said  Mrs.  Bosanfield  with  a 
brief  and  patronising  smile.  'I  intended  to  ask  if  you  were 
going  to  take  orders.' 

'  I  !  Oh,  dear  no  ! '  said  Felix,  speaking  rather  loudly  in  the 
shock  of  his  surprise  at  any  one  supposing  such  a  thing  possible. 
A  second  later  he  realised  that  of  course  Mrs.  Bosantield  knew 
nothing  whatever  of  him  or  of  his  character.  There  was  more 
than  a  shade  of  disapproval  in  the  glance  she  now  cast  at  him. 
So  many  of  her  relations  had  become  clergymen,  and  she  had 
moved  so  perpetually  in  clerical  society  all  her  life,  that  Felix's 
exclamation,  conveying  as  it  did  a  hint  of  contempt,  struck  her 
as  wellnigh  sacrilegious. 

'You  do  not  feel  able  for  it,  I  conceive,'  she  remarked, 
pouting  her  lips  to  a  glass  of  sherry. 

'  I  'm  afraid  I  should  not  be  very  successful  as  a  clergyman,' 
said  Felix,  recovering  his  equanimity,  '  I  doubt  if  I  could 
preach.' 

'  Preaching  is  not  everything  a  clergyman  has  to  do,'  said 
Mrs.  Bosanfield  educationally. 

'  Oh  no,  of  course  not,'  Felix  assented,  inclined  to  wish  it  the 
one  thing  no  clergyman  ever  had  to  do  under  any  circum- 
stances. 

'Stephen  is  an  excellent  preacher,'  continued  Mrs.  Bosan- 
field, placing  her  fish-knife  and  fork  neatly  side  by  side  on  her 
plate,  and  tucking  in  her  chin.  '  I  shall  not  be  surprised  if 
they  make  him  a  bishop  in  the  end.  Very  fortunate  for  your 
sister  if  it  should  prove  so.' 

'  Very.     I  do  hope  it  may,'  replied  Felix. 

He  often  imitated  unconsciously.  If  he  saw  any  one  fre- 
quently make  an  odd  gesture  he  could  scarcely  help  reproducing 


FELIX  83 

it.  And  now,  in  replying  to  Mrs.  Bosanfield's  ambitiously  pious 
aspiration,  without  being  aware  of  it,  he  adopted  her  clipping, 
yet  churchy  mode  of  speech.  She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment 
attentively,  then  said,  '  Time  will  show,'  in  a  finishing  manner, 
turned  to  the  rector  of  the  parish,  who  was  on  her  other  side, 
and  began  to  pronounce  authoritatively  on  the  special  qualities 
necessary  to  the  making  of  a  successful  missionary  to  the 
Chinese. 

For  a  moment  Felix  sat  looking  straight  before  him  down  the 
table.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  mother's  white  hair  between 
the  silver  candlesticks  and  the  red  roses.  She  was  talking  to 
Mr.  Ismey,  whose  melancholy  eyes  were  turned  in  his  direction. 
Her  son  guessed  that  she  was  saying  something  about  him,  and 
wondered  what  it  was — not  that  it  mattered.  He  felt  strangely 
detached  from  all  these  family  doings,  almost  as  if  he  were  a 
changeling  dropped  down  into  this  room,  familiar  though  it 
was  to  him.  Margot  was  speaking  eagerly  yet  shyly  to  Stej.hen 
Bosanfield,  occasionally  darting  conscious  glances  at  the  other 
guests  to  see  if  they  were  noticing  her — adversely,  no  doubt. 
Her  fianc^  was  eating  some  sweetbread  with  calm  precision,  like 
a  man  fulfilling  a  duty  with  the  unimpassioned  dexterity  that 
comes  of  long  thought  and  practice.  As  Felix  glanced  at  him 
he  indulged  in  his  favourite  trick  of  moving  his  ears.  Felix  set 
his  lips  together  and  stared  hard  at  him,  seized  by  a  sort  of 
angry  fascination.  He  saw  Margot  married  to  those  ears, 
living  with  them  for  the  rest  of  her  days,  his  sister  with  whom 
he  was  so  intimate,  and  yet  whom  surely  he  scarcely  knew 
at  all.  A  sort  of  perplexity  overcame  him.  The  phantasma- 
goria of  human  relations  rendered  him  dizzy.  What  do  we  all 
mean  to  each  other  ?     He  wondered.     Everything  and  nothing. 

'  Won't  you  speak  to  me  at  all  ?  '  said  a  drawling  clear  voice. 

He  started.  Mrs.  Ismey  was  looking  at  him  with  a  half- 
smile. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon.* 

'You  feel  very  much  out  of  it,  don't  you?'  she  continued. 

Felix  felt  confused,  but  when  he  met  her  odd,  yellowish  eyes 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  ca7naradei-ie,  and  thought  that  if 
he  got  to  know  this  stranger  well  he  could  be  very  much  at  his 
ease  with  her. 

'  What  makes  you  think  so?'  he  asked,  lowering  his  voice. 

'Know  so,  you  mean.' 

'  Oh,  but  you  can't  know,  Mrs.  Ismey.' 

He  began  confidently,  ended  with  diffidence. 

'You   disapprove   of  family  functions,    so   do   I.       Uneasy 


84  FELIX 

geniality  pervades  them.  They  are  a  foretaste  of — wait,  don't 
be  shocked — I  was  only  going  to  say  Christmas.' 

'  I  didn't  suppose ' 

'  Indeed  you  did.  So  you  really  are  the  son  of  the  house.  I 
can  hardly  believe  it.' 

She  was  looking  at  him  critically.  There  was  nothing  on  her 
plate.     Every  one  else  was  eating. 

*  Don't  I  look  as  if  I  was  ? ' 

'  No.     Are  you  going  to  give  your  sister  away  to-morrow  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  How  interesting.  I  shall  watch  your  performance  with  the 
keenest  solicitude.' 

Felix  scarcely  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  to  feel  vexed.  It 
startled  him  to  find  his  thoughts  being  accurately  read  by  a 
total  stranger,  whose  thoughts  he  was  unable  to  read  in  return, 
and  he  glanced  at  his  companion  half-scared,  half-excited. 
How  pretty  her  hair  was.  He  admired  her  eyebrows  very 
much  too,  but  found  the  shape  of  her  nose  distinctly  dis- 
appointing. 

'  Yes,  everybody  thinks  that,'  she  said.  '  It 's  very  hard  for 
me,  but  I  can't  help  it.' 

This  time  Felix  was  thoroughly  taken  aback,  and  showed  it 
in  schoolboy  fashion. 

'  I  wasn't  at  all  thinking — I  mean  I  don't  agree  at  all  with — 
with — that  is ' 

'  Never  mind,'  she  interrupted  indulgently.  '  I  'm  not  sensi- 
tive. In  fact,  I  'm  rather  conceited  than  otherwise,  and  believe 
that  my  good  points  outweigh  my  bad  ones.  Let 's  change  the 
subject.  Isn't  Stephen  Bosanfield  sublime  to-night?  He's  the 
most  self-possessed  man  I  know,  and  I  never  can  make  up  my 
mind  whether  his  self-possession  springs  from  his  limitations  or 
his  talents.' 

She  had  lowered  her  voice,  but  still  spoke  with  the  drawl. 
Felix  began  to  like  it,  and  to  feel  as  if  she  and  he  were  apart 
from  the  rest,  from  the  feeding,  contented  family-party,  in  a 
world  of  their  own,  rather  startling,  but  decidedly  invigorating. 

'  You  think  the  former,  I  know,'  she  added  quietly. 

By  this  time  Felix  was  thoroughly  roused.  Her  impudence 
bred  an  answering  impudence — impudence  of  self-defence — 
in  him. 

'No,  I  don't,'  he  said  boldly. 

'So  you  can  lie,'  she  remarked,  'and  quite  well  too,  without 
the  passing  tremor  that  is  so  traitorous  to  the  desire  to  be 
sinful.      Be  careful,  Mr.  Wilding ;  that  faculty  may  lead  you 


FELIX  85 

far  into  the  unknown  when  you  're — well,  shall  I  say  out  of 
leading  strings  ? ' 

'  Well,  you  are — you  are  jolly ' 

'Jolly  what?' 

'I  mean,  you  don't  care  what  you  say.* 

*  As  long  as  I  am  speaking  the  truth,'  she  said  maliciously. 
'No,  thank  you.'  This  was  to  the  butler,  who  offered  her 
another  course. 

'  You  aren't  eating  anything,'  exclaimed  Felix  anxiously. 

The  welfare  of  this  curious  person  suddenly  seemed  to  him 
of  the  greatest  importance. 

'No.' 

'But  why  not?' 

'  Simply  because  I  'm  not  at  all  hungry  just  now.  I  dare  say 
I  shall  eat  in  the  night.' 

'  What  1  in  bed  ?  '  said  Felix,  with  very  youthful  bluntness. 

*  Exactly,  in  bed.  Are  you  shocked?  Well,  so  is  Mr.  Ismey. 
At  least  he  used  to  be.  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  he 
found  an  anchovy  sandwich  under  my  pillow  in  the  morning.' 

'  Ah,  I  see  you  're  laughing  at  me,  but  I  don't  mind. 
Besides,  I  think  you  laugh  at  everybody.' 

'So  you're  turning  thought -reader.  But  doesn't  Mrs. 
Bosanfield  want  to  say  something  to  you  about  church  con- 
gresses?' 

Felix  glanced  round  quickly,  but  Mrs.  Bosanfield  merely 
pouted  her  lips  at  him  and  turned  again  to  her  rector.  He 
heard  her  saying : 

'The  case  of  a  precentor  is  very  different.  I  have  met 
precentors  all  my  life,  and  I  have  always  found  them  unduly 
musical.  They  are  prone  to  exalt  the  quality  of  sound  emitted 
above  the  sentiment  which  prompts  the  utterance.  I  would 
far  rather  hear  a  hymn  sung  out  of  tune  by  one  who  truly 
means  it  than  the  most  perfect  warbling  by  an  inattentive 
chorister.' 

'  What  a  pity  you  are  not  one  of  the  cloth,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 
'Then  you  could  engage  her  attention,  or  even  sing  a  hymn 
with  her  out  of  tune.' 

'  I  'd  far  rather  engage  yours. 

'Well,  you  do.' 

'  But  I  feel  you  're  criticising  me,  and  laughing  at  me  all  the 
time.' 

He  spoke  half  sorely.     She  was  such  a  very  cool  hand. 

'Not  all,'  she  replied.  'I  have  my  moments  of  mental 
repose  and  gravity,  I  assure  you.' 


86  FELIX 

'  Are  you  ever  serious  ?  ' 

'  Never  at  a  family-dinner.  On  such  an  occasion  frivolity  is 
one's  only  salvation.' 

Felix  saw  an  opening  here  to  ask  a  question  that  had  been 
puzzling  him  a  good  deal. 

'  May  I — d'  you  mind  my  asking  you  something?  *  he  said. 

'  No — so  long  as  it  isn't  my  age,'  she  replied. 

*  Mrs.  Ismey  !     As  if  I  should ' 

'You  recognise  that  my  maturity  puts  such  an  idea  out  of 
court.     Well,  what  is  it?' 

'Are you  Stephen  Bosanfield's  old  friend?* 

'What  do  you  suppose?' 

'Why — that  your  husband  is.' 

'  Yes.  His  mother  was  an  intimate  of  Mrs.  Bosanfield's,  and 
was  devoted  to  your  future  brother-in-law.  My  husband  and  he 
have  been  quite  like  relations  all  their  lives.  So  here  we  are, 
down  from  London  to  bless  the  nuptials.' 

'  You  live  in  London  ! '  said  Felix  with  deep  interest. 

'  Of  course,  Green  Street,  Park  Lane.  Don't  you  know  who 
my  husband  is  ?' 

'  No.  Ought  I  to  ?  You  see,  I  'm  a — we  're  awfully  out  of 
everything  here.' 

'  Are  you  ?  Still,  I  suppose  books  penetrate  even  to  this 
remote  region — thirty  miles,  isn't  it,  from  the  metropolis?' 

'  Books  ! '  exclaimed  Felix  with  growing  excitement,  '  Is  he 
an  author?' 

'  Heaven  forefend  !  I  don't  want  to  leave  Green  Street  for 
West  Kensington.    Haven't  you  heard  of  Ismey  the  publisher?' 

'  Ismey — of  course  ! ' 

'Well,  we  are  Ismey.     Impressive,  isn't  it?* 

To  Felix  it  was  very  impressive,  but,  meeting  her  humorous 
eyes,  he  suddenly  did  not  care  to  acknowledge  that,  to  him,  it 
was  an  event  to  meet  the  head  of  a  great  publishing-house ; 
one  who  must  be  in  perpetual  and  close  relations  with  those 
mysterious  beings  who,  like  Balzac,  created  populations  and 
played  upon  the  hearts  and  imaginations  of  the  world.  Still, 
he  could  not  quite  stifle  his  excitement  and  curiosity,  though  he 
did  his  best  to  control  them. 

'Then  I  suppose  you  know  a  great  many  writers?'  he  said, 
trying  to  speak  indifferently. 

'  Oh  yes — far  too  many.* 

*Too  many? ' 

*  They  seldom  shine  in  conversation.* 
'Still,  you  know  they  are  clever.' 


FELIX  •  87 

•  My  dear  boy !  what  do  you  mean  ?' 

She  was  smihng  mischievously  over  her  square  of  tablecloth, 
on  which  was  no  plate.  Now  she  opened  her  fan  and  began  to 
use  it  rhythmically. 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  she  repeated. 

Felix  felt  a  little  nettled. 

•Why,  that  they've  got  brains,  of  course,' he  exclaimed. 

'The  power  of  moving  a  pen,  often  ungrammatically,  over 
foolscap  does  not  always  imply  that.  But  are  you  a  worshipper 
of  lion-cubs?' 

'  I  don't  know.  I  mean  I  've  never  met  any,  but  I  certainly 
have — well,  I  suppose  you'd  call  it  worshipped  some  one  who 
wrote.' 

'And  who's  been  nice  enough  to  stop  writing?' 

*  He 's  dead,'  Felix  said  abruptly. 

Suddenly  his  imagination  flew  back  to  Tours,  and  he  saw  the 
statue  in  the  twilight.  He  forgot  to  be  sensitive  any  more  in 
the  presence  of  this  cynical  observer.  His  self-consciousness 
departed,  driven  out  by  the  real  enthusiasm  that  burnt  like  a 
fire  within  him  whenever  he  thought  of  the  magician  who  had 
opened  to  him  the  gates  of  the  world.  And,  turning  on  Mrs. 
Ismey  with  sparkling  eyes,  he  said  almost  defiantly  : 

'And  I  do  worship  him,  whether  you  laugh  at  me  or  not.' 

The  smile  on  her  lips  became  suddenly  less  satirical  and 
much  more  kind. 

'Who  is  it?'  she  asked  quite  gently. 

'  Balzac,'  said  Felix.  '  I  've  been  living  in  France,  you  know, 
near  Tours.' 

'  The  very  land  of  the  magician ! '  she  said  with  vivacity. 
*That  accounts  for  it' 

'  For  what  ? '  asked  Felix. 

'  Oh,  many  things ;  why  it  struck  me  as  so  strange  that  you 
should  be  the  son  of  this  house  for  one.  So  you  love  Balzac. 
Which  of  his  books  have  you  re?  1  ? ' 

'All  of  them.' 

She  examined  him  with  an  attention  that  seemed  profound. 

'All?     How  old  are  you?' 

'Twenty.' 

*And  how  much  of  life  have  you  seen — actually  seen  for 
yourself? ' 

Felix  looked  a  little  shamefaced, 

'  How  much?  Oh,  well— scarcely  any,  I  suppose.  I  've  just 
been  to  school — Rugby — and  here,  and  in  France — quite  in  the 
country.' 


88  FELIX 

She  looked  pleased. 

'Delicious,'  she  said.  *  What  a  debut \  It  ought  to  be 
eccentric  and  superb.' 

She  was  silent,  with  her  eyes  on  him.  Her  thick  eyebrows 
were  drawn  together.  She  looked  quite  dreamy,  Felix  thought. 
Yet  her  gaze  was  piercing.  Her  last  words  had  roused  all  the 
romance  in  him,  and  some  of  the  latent  vanity  of  untried  youth. 
The  sound  of  them  was  musical  and  sonorous  to  him,  and 
suggested  a  pageant  of  beautiful  grotesques. 

There  was  a  rustling  movement  in  the  room.  Mrs.  Wilding 
was  getting  up.  The  intent  look  died  out  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  eyes. 
She  shut  her  fan.  Already  Mrs.  Bosanfield  was  waddling  to- 
wards the  door,  her  plump  bosom  protruded,  her  chin  tucked 
in.  Dinner  had  rendered  her  priestly  pursiness  more  striking 
than  ever.     Mrs.  Ismey  leaned  towards  Felix. 

'  Go  and  make  friends  with  my  husband,'  she  said. 

She  followed  Mrs.  Bosanfield,  looking,  Felix  thought,  like 
Circe  in  the  wake  of  Mrs.  Trimmer.  He  had  no  notion  what 
Mrs.  Trimmer  had  looked  like  when  she  inhabited  the  flesh 
and  wrote  her  history,  but  the  name  suggested  to  him  some- 
thing English,  orthodox,  that  wore  a  white  pork-pie  cap,  waddled, 
and  knew  all  about  precentors. 

When  the  door  shut  behind  Margot,  who  was  the  last  of  the 
little  procession  of  women,  Felix  obeyed  Mrs.  Ismey's  injunction, 
and,  carrying  his  glass  of  wine  with  him,  went  to  sit  down 
beside  her  husband.  Stephen  Bosanfield  promptly  closed  in 
on  Mr.  Ismey's  other  side.  The  archdeacon  and  the  Indian 
judge  had  already  fallen  into  a  desultory  conversation  on  the 
disadvantages  of  black  blood,  and  the  grievous  events  that 
follow  on  mixed  marriages  in  the  far  East.  The  archdeacon 
stroked  his  cathedral  beard,  the  judge  crumbled  his  bread 
between  his  lemon-coloured  fingers,  sipped  his  port,  and  became 
informing.  He  had  dined  well,  and  his  imagination  began  to 
glow  gently  as  it  played  about  the  hot  Indian  plains.  Felix 
was  half  inclined  to  listen,  but  Mr.  Ismey  greeted  him  with  : 

'  Your  mother  has  been  telling  me  about  your  stay  in  France. 
So  you  wouldn't  go  to  Oxford?' 

*  I  didn't  care  to,'  answered  Felix,  feeling  suddenly  shy. 

'Well,'  said  Mr.  Ismey  kindly,  'if  the  disinclination  was 
strong,  probably  Oxford  wouldn't  have  done  very  much  for  you.' 

'Oh,  but  surely  that  might  have  been  the  very  thing  to  make 
it  doubly  admirable,'  said  Stephen  Bosanfield,  pouring  some 
water  into  a  wine-glass.     '  Discipline  is  always  so  precious.' 

Felix  darted  an  impatient  glance  at  him. 


FELIX  89 

*Ah,  Stephen,  you  always  adored  the  hair  shirt,'  said  Mr. 
Ismey.  '  But  whether  the  hair  shirt,  worn  in  early  youth,  is 
calculated  to  foster  the  saint  in  a  man  or  to  create  the  mis- 
anthrope depends,  I  suspect,  upon  the  nature  that  wears  it.' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ? '  Stephen  said  with,  to  Felix,  very  un- 
expected mildness. 

Mr.  Ismey  evidently  had  some  influence  upon  the  uncom- 
promising priest.  As  to  Felix,  already  he  felt  drawn  to  this 
melancholy-looking  but  handsome  man,  who  surely  understood 
him. 

'  I  do,'  Mr.  Ismey  answered.  '  And  even  in  much  later  life 
discipline,  as  you  call  it,  might  easily  tend  to  the  embittering  of 
a  nature.' 

He  sighed,  then  suddenly  seemed  to  put  away  some  sad 
memory  or  fear  that  was  assailing  him. 

'  What  part  of  France  were  you  in  ?'  he  asked  Felix. 

Felix  told  him.     The  shadow  came  again  over  his  face. 

'Ah,  I  have  made  the  pilgrimage  to  Tours,'  he  said  slowly. 

'  Didn't  you  meet  your  wife  there  for  the  first  time,  Francis?' 
Stephen  asked  rather  abruptly. 

'Yes,  in  the  hotel.  She  was  touring  with  Lady  Caroline 
Hurst  among  the  chateaux.' 

Mr.  Ismey's  voice  had  slightly  altered.  It  sounded  harder, 
Felix  thought. 

'  I  met  Lady  Caroline  once,'  Stephen  said ;  '  at  your  house, 
if  you  remember.     I  can't  say  I  liked  her.' 

'  She  is  a  woman  typical  of  her  day.' 

'If  she  is  typical,'  rejoined  Stephen,  in  his  most  narrow  and 
firm  manner,  'the  day  must  have  come  to  a  pretty  pass.' 

Felix  suddenly  felt  certain  that  he  would  like  Lady  Caroline 
immensely  if  he  knew  her. 

Mr.  Ismey  looked  at  Felix,  who  was  listening  to  the  con- 
versation with  his  usual  ardour.  The  bright  eyes  of  the  boy, 
his  air  of  vivid  alertness,  seemed  to  strike  the  older  man. 

'And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  life?'  he  asked 
kindly.     '  Something  definite,  I  feel  sure.' 

Felix  longed  to  give  some  expression  to  his  passionate  desire 
to  grasp  hands  with  the  great  world,  but  the  prim  red  face  of 
Stephen  subdued  him.  He  could  not  speak  before  that  con- 
scientious spectator,  so  he  only  answered,  rather  shortly,  and 
with  a  slightly  awkward  air: 

•  Oh,  I  hardly  know  yet.  You  see,  I  've  been  back  a  very 
short  time.' 

'  No  doubt  you  will  want  to  take  your  mother's  advice  in  the 


90  FELIX 

matter,'  said  Stephen,  finishing  his  glass  of  water,  and  dabbing 
his  Hps  with  a  napkin. 

Felix  was  on  the  point  of  saying  brusquely,  *No,  I  shan't,' 
but  he  checked  himself  in  time. 

*  Of  course,  when  the  moment  comes,  I  shall  talk  it  over  with 
her,'  he  said. 

'The  advice  of  such  a  mother  could  not  but  be  invaluable,' 
continued  Stephen,  placing  the  napkin,  neatly  folded  together, 
on  the  table  and  clasping  his  hands  across  his  chest. 

This  second  remark  irritated  Felix  so  much  that  he  could  not 
resist  his  inclination  to  show  his  vexation. 

'  Even  the  best  woman  in  the  world  may  not  be  able  to  judge 
for  a  man,'  he  said  rather  hotly. 

'You  think  not?  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  would  rather 
take  my  mother's  opinion  on  a  point  than  that  of  any  one  I 
know,'  returned  Stephen  equably. 

'Surely  it  depends  on  what  the  point  is,'  said  Felix. 

But  here  Mr.  Ismey  broke  in  gently  and  turned  the  con- 
versation into  another  channel.  Nevertheless,  when  the  men 
got  up  to  go  into  the  drawing-room,  Felix  was  still  fuming,  hot 
with  a  most  useless  resentment  against  the  unimpassioned  priest. 

They  found  Mrs.  Bosanfield  seated  on  the  sofa  beside  Margot, 
quite  evidently  engaged  in  probing  to  its  depths  the  character 
of  her  future  daughter-in-law,  who  in  an  obsequious  attitude, 
and  with  eyes  that  begged  frantically  for  a  favourable  verdict, 
was  replying  with  uneasy  volubility  to  her  searching  questions. 
Mrs.  Wilding  and  Mrs.  Ismey  were  sitting  together  at  a  little 
distance.  The  latter  looked  decidedly  bored,  and  turned  round 
eagerly  to  welcome  the  arrival  of  the  men.  Felix  went  up  to 
her  at  once.  He  remembered  afterwards  that  all  the  other 
people  in  the  room  seemed  to  him  like  pale  shadows  from  which 
she  stood  out  with  an  extraordinary  sharp  clearness  and  meaning. 
His  mother  smiled  at  him  gently.  There  was  a  sort  of  pleading 
for  some  filial  attention  in  her  great,  soft  eyes,  but  he  did  not 
notice  it.  Mr.  Ismey  and  Stephen  began  to  talk  to  her.  Mrs. 
Ismey  got  up. 

'  What  dear  old-fashioned  lattice-windows  you  have  here,' 
she  said. 

She  moved  towards  the  farther  one,  which  was  partly  open. 
Felix  followed  her.  As  she  passed  a  mirror  he  saw  that  she 
turned  her  head  and  glanced  into  it  quickly.  Reaching  the 
window,  she  put  her  right  hand  on  the  sill  and  looked  out. 

'There's  moonhght,'  she  said.  'And,  oh,  what  a  delicious 
garden  1 ' 


FELIX  91 

Felix  suddenly  felt  proud  of  his  home. 

'Do  you  like  it?'  he  asked,  standing  beside  her. 

The  thick  yew  hedge  that  grew  along  the  high  bank  of  the 
sunken  road  looked  as  black  as  ebony  in  the  night,  and  almost 
as  unyielding.  The  short  grass  of  the  smooth  lawn,  which 
stretched  from  it  to  the  narrow  path  of  pale-yellow  gravel  that 
ran  by  the  house,  was  silvered  by  the  moon  and  chequered  by 
the  steady  shadows  of  the  tall  old  trees.  There  was  no  wind, 
not  even  the  lightest  breeze.  The  outline  of  the  church,  where 
Margot  would  be  married  on  the  morrow,  was  defined  against 
the  cloudless,  black-purple,  night  sky.  Bats  were  wheeling 
about.  They  came  swiftly  out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  trees, 
slanted  downwards  across  the  radiance  of  the  moonlight,  circled 
round,  and  returned  into  the  darkness,  as  if  disappointed  in  some 
anxious,  perpetual  quest  which  could  only  be  followed  surrep- 
titiously. 

'  Would  your  mother  think  me  very  unconventional  if  I  asked 
to  go  out  into  that  paradise  just  for  a  moment?'  said  Mrs. 
Ismey,  half  turning  towards  Felix,  still  with  one  hand  on  the 
window-sill. 

'No.  Oh,  do  come  out!'  he  answered  eagerly.  'I  should 
love  to  show  you  the  garden.' 

Because  she  called  it  a  paradise  he  felt  that  indeed  it 
was  one. 

'  Mother,'  he  exclaimed,  '  Mrs.  Ismey  wants  to  see  the  garden.' 

'What,  dear?' said  Mrs.  Wilding,  stopping  in  her  talk  with 
Mr.  Ismey  and  Stephen  Bosanfield. 

'  May  I  just  have  a  peep  into  your  garden  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Ismey, 
coming  down  the  room.  '  It  looks  like  enchanted  ground 
to-night.' 

'But  aren't  you  afraid  of  catching  cold?'  said  Mrs.  Wilding. 
*  It's  always  so  damp  at  night.' 

'  Nonsense,  mater — damp  !     Why,  it's  as  dry  as  a  bone.' 

'I'm  impervious  to  cold.  Am  I  not,  Francis?'  said  Mrs. 
Ismey  to  her  husband. 

'  I  dare  say,'  he  answered  gravely. 

'  Well,  do  put  on  my  shawl,  at  any  rate,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding, 
with  the  most  genuine  solicitude. 

Felix  saw  Mrs.  Ismey  look  at  its  thin  blackness  with  humorous 
dismay,  but  she  took  it  at  once  and  put  it  over  her  shoulders. 

'  There  ! '  she  said.  '  Now  I  'm  safe.  Thank  you  so  much. 
Which  way  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  '11  show  you,*  said  Felix  engerly. 

He  was  longing  to  be  out  in  the  silence  of  the  garden,  ard 


92  FELIX 

was  in  dread  lest  any  one — his  uncle,  perhaps,  or  the  archdeacon 
— should  offer  to  join  the  party  and  destroy  all  possibility  of 
pleasure.  Under  the  influence  of  this  fear  he  opened  the  door 
into  the  garden  hall  with  extraordinary  quickness,  and  looked 
into  Mrs.  Ismey's  face  with  such  beckoning  anxiety  that  she  left 
the  drawing-room  like  a  flash. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  she  whispered,  as  he  swiftly  shut  the  door. 
'What's  the  matter?' 

'  I  didn't  want  any  of  the  others  to  come.  That 's  all.  We 
go  through  here.' 

As  they  stepped  out  on  to  the  gravel,  she  said  plaintively, 
'But  how  selfish  you  are.     I  wished  the  archdeacon  to  come.' 

'  Not  really  ? ' 

•But  I  did!' 

'  Archdeacons  and  moonlight  don't  go  well  together,'  said  Felix. 

He  was  feeling  pleasantly  audacious  and  happy.  This  even- 
ing, which  he  had  expected  to  be  so  wearisome  and  trying,  was 
turning  out  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  his  life.  There  was 
a  heat  of  eagerness  in  his  soul.  A  flood  of  activity,  mental  and 
physical,  seemed  to  well  up  in  him,  prompting  him  to  energies, 
but  of  what  nature  he  could  not  tell.  He  only  knew  that,  as 
when  he  stood  on  the  bridge  over  the  Loire,  he  had  a  violent 
desire  to  accomplish  something,  to  find  an  outlet  for  his  abrupt 
and  vehement  ardour. 

Mrs.  Ismey  looked  at  his  eyes  with  her  curious  yellowish  ones, 
and  said : 

'  Why,  what  is  it  you  want  to  do  ? ' 

Felix  struck  his  hand  down  against  his  side  with  an  almost 
comically  young  action. 

'It's  too  much — you're  always  knowing  what  one 's  feeling, 
like  that,'  he  exclaimed.    'Why  should  I  want  to  do  anything?  ' 

'  I  don't  know.    It 's  inappropriate  of  you  on  such  a  night.' 

'So  it  is,'  said  Felix,  suddenly  realising  the  patient  peace  of 
nature. 

Under  the  great  yew-tree,  by  the  fuchsia  it  guarded,  there 
was  a  wooden  seat  curved  in  horse-shoe  form.  Mrs.  Ismey 
noticed  it. 

*I  am  going  to  sit  there,'  she  said. 

She  moved  along  the  path.  Felix  listened  to  the  noise  of  her 
green-and-gold  dress  on  the  gravel.  It  made  a  sudden  diminu- 
endo as  she  stepped  on  to  the  close-shaven  lawn  to  gain  the 
seat,  but  still  a  delicate  sound  accompanied  her.  And  he 
thought  how  fascinating  the  sound  of  a  woman  is.  He  followed 
lier,  walking  on  tiptoe  unconsciously,  in  an   effort  to  be  as 


FELIX  93 

ethereal  as  he  fancied  her  to  be.  She  sat  down,  and  at  once 
took  off  the  icewool  shawl. 

'It  was  so  sweet  of  your  mother,'  she  said.  'But  I  really 
don't  need  it.' 

'You  are  much  prettier  without  it,'  Felix  said. 

But  he  did  not  look  at  her  bare  neck  and  bosom  just  then. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  hasty  and  obvious  to  do  so, 
and  like  all  other  men.  She  was  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  yew 
now.  Only  the  tips  of  her  shoes,  which  were  embroidered  with 
gold,  were  reached  by  the  moonlight  because  she  stretched  them 
out  to  it.  The  shawl  made  a  black  blot  in  her  lap,  and  her 
hands,  lying  lightly  on  it,  were  as  white  as  pearls.  It  was  at 
them  that  Felix  looked.     He  did  not  want  to  touch  them. 

'To  feel  active,  impetuous  on  a  night  like  this  is  to  feel 
antagonistic  to  nature,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said,  resuming  the  thread 
of  her  former  words.  '  Lots  of  people,  especially  men,  live  in 
perpetual  antagonism  with  nature.     But  are  you  one  of  them  ?' 

Felix  began  to  wonder. 

'  I  hardly  know,'  he  said.  I  hardly  know  what  I  am.  But — 
no,  I  don't  think  so.' 

He  stopped,  looking  down  at  the  moonlit  lawn. 

'  Perhaps  I  am,  though,'  he  went  on.  '  For  sometimes  extreme 
quiet,  or  some  very  faint  noise,  like  a  river,  or — or  a  woman's 
dress  rustling,  makes  me  want  to  do  some  great  deed.  '  Isn't 
it  idiotic?' 

At  the  end  he  had  become  self-conscious,  and  now  glanced 
at  her  anxiously,  expecting  the  satirical  demon  that  lurked  in 
her  to  peep  out  at  him, 

'I  suppose  it's  never  idiotic  to  want  to  do  something  great 
unless  you  sit  down  to  go  on  wanting,'  she  remarked.  '  Do  you 
mean  to  do  that?' 

'Think  about  efforts  instead  of  making  them?' 

*  Exactly.' 

'  I  hope  not.* 

He  was  aware  now  that,  with  Mrs.  Ismey,  he  felt  far  less 
sure  of  himself,  of  his  intelligence,  his  acuteness  of  observation, 
his  male  superiority — and  superiority  to  many  males — than  he 
often  did. 

'You  are  uncertain  about  yourself.  That's  clever  of  you,' 
she  said. 

'Clever!     Why?' 

'Very  young  people  are  generally  quite  certain  about  every- 
thing, but  especially  about  themselves.     Oh  ! ' 

The  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  voice  of  the  church  clock, 


94  FELIX 

whichbegan  slowly  to  strike  ten.  They  both  listened  till  it  ceased. 
Felix  stole  a  glance  at  his  companion's  face.  He  could  not  see 
it  very  well.  The  shadow  was  too  deep.  But  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  an  expression  of  uneasiness  or  of  acute  impatience 
on  it.  Yet  that  there  should  be  was  so  unlikely  that  he  thought 
he  must  be  mistaken.  Doubtless  the  shade  of  the  yew-tree 
threw  a  strangeness  upon  her.  When  she  spoke  again  he  felt 
quite  certain  it  was  so,  for  her  voice  was  light  and  composed 
as  ever. 

'I  like  uncertain  people,' she  said.  'And  I  believe  women 
often  do.  They  are  attracted  most  by  men  on  whom  they  can't 
rely.     It's  part  of  their  general  supreme  idiocy.' 

'  Oh,  I  say — you  are  hard  on  them,  though.' 

He  glanced  at  her  again,  and  again  her  eyes  seemed  to  him 
almost  fierce  with  some  desire,  some  anxiety.  This  time  he 
could  not  convince  himself  that  he  was  tricked  by  the  darkness, 
and  he  began  to  feel  uncomfortable,  almost  nervous.  And  now, 
too,  he  thought,  perhaps  led  by  his  nerves,  that  there  was  an 
echo  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  face  in  her  voice — the  thing  heard  repeating 
the  significance  of  the  thing  seen. 

'  We  are  idiots,'  she  said.  '  We  prove  it  by  our  actions  every 
day,  every  hour,  by  our  marriages  and  our  breaking  of  them, 
our  faith  and  our  suspicions,  our  fickleness  and  our  absurd 
clinging  to  gods  with  whole  bodies  of  clay  as  well  as  feet,  our 
renunciations  and  our — the  things  we  seize  on.' 

She  had  put  up  one  hand  to  her  neck,  and  she  now  let  it 
slide  softly  over  her  bosom  to  the  edge  of  her  low  bodice, 
pushing  her  fingers  down  a  little  below  the  stuff. 

'Oh,  Mr.  Wilding,'  she  said,  'I  wish  you  would  just  go  and 
look  in  for  a  moment  at  the  window.  I  've  got  a  sudden  ridicu- 
lous desire  to  know  what  they  are  all  doing.' 

'Of  course  I  '11  go,'  Felix  answered,  a  good  deal  surprised. 

The  request  was  so  very  abrupt,  and  rather  odd,  too,  he 
thought.  He  got  up  and  went  towards  the  window.  While  he 
was  going,  some  impulse  made  him  turn  round  to  look  back 
across  the  moonlit  grass  at  his  companion,  and  he  saw  her  bend 
down  swiftly,  eagerly,  without  getting  up  from  the  bench.  The 
moon  shone  for  a  moment  on  her  hair  as  she  threw  her  head 
forward  in  making  the  movement.  Felix  turned  away  and  went 
on.  He  had  an  odd  idea  that  she  had  got  rid  of  him  intention- 
ally for  an  instant.  But  why?  There  was  a  sort  of  passion  in 
the  vitality  of  the  movement  he  had  just  seen.  It  aroused  a 
strong  burning  curiosity  in  him.  So  sure  did  he  feel  tliat — 
why,  he  could  not  imagine — Mrs.  Ismey  had  only  sent  him  to 


FELIX  95 

the  window  in  order  to  be  alone,  that  he  scarcely  looked  in. 
He  waited  for  two  or  three  minutes  on  the  path  and  then 
returned  slowly.  She  was  leaning  against  the  back  of  the  seat, 
not  quite  languidly,  but  as  if  she  were  expectant  of  a  languor 
which  had  not  yet  come  upon  her.  She  did  not  fail  to  question 
Felix  about  the  family-party,  and  so  minutely  that  he  began  to 
suppose  his  suspicion  had  been  wrong,  and  that  she  had  really 
been  inquisitive  as  to  the  proceedings  in  the  drawing-room. 
He  answered  as  best  he  could. 

'  Oh,  you  've  dropped  that  blessed  old  shawl,'  he  said  presently. 

'  No,  have  I  ? ' 

He  picked  it  up. 

'  Yes.     I  suppose  it  was  when  you  leant  forward.* 

•I!' 

He  thought  her  voice  sounded  sharp. 

'Yes,'  he  said.     'Just  after  I  started  to  go  to  the  window.' 

'  Oh,  of  course.  I  wanted  to  feel  whether  the  grass  was 
damp.     What  your  mother  said,  you  know.     It  was  quite  dry.' 

Felix  touched  the  lawn  with  his  left  hand,  which  was  on  the 
side  away  from  Mrs.  Ismey.  There  was  dew  on  it.  They  sat 
in  silence  for  several  minutes.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  some  of 
her  vivacity,  and  Felix  was  plunged  in  an  excitement  of  thought 
which  led  him  down  blind  alkys.  The  sound  of  a  chord  struck 
on  the  piano  in  the  drawing-room  startled  him.  It  seemed 
intensely  artificial  heard  out  of  doors.  Mrs.  Ismey  moved 
slightly  on  the  seat.  A  bat  crossed  the  space  of  moonlight  in 
front  of  them,  descended,  and  flew  round  and  round  close  to 
the  grass.  Tlie  sound  of  the  piano  continued,  and  then  Margot's 
voice  was  audible.  She  sang  a  few  notes  and  was  joined  by  a 
tenor.  She  and  Stephen  Bosanfield  were  uniting  in  a  most 
domestic  English  duet.  The  latter  sang  neatly  and  with  some 
skill.  Margot's  quality  of  voice  was  deliciously  pure.  But  there 
was  an  absence  of  passion,  of  excitement,  which  irritated  I'clix 
at  this  moment.  He  did  not  stop  to  think  that  any  violence 
would  have  been  unsuitable  imposed  upon  the  very  respectable 
composition  they  were  inter]. rcling.  Selfishly  he  craved  for  a 
volume  of  sound  that  would  fit  in  with,  or  interpret,  his  mental 
condition.  He  would  have  liked  a  languid  and  mysterious  air, 
— Indian,  perhaps— growing  gradually  into  excitement  like  a 
cleverly  written  story.  The  English  words,  which  he  could 
hear  distinctly,  worried  him.  They  were  so  quietly  and  un- 
meaningly sentimental,  so  humdrum  in  their  decent  baldness. 
But  no  doubt  they  were  very  correct,  fitting  the  occasion. 
Indeed,  he   presently  began   to   think   that   they  were   mildly 


96  FELIX 

prophetic  of  the  married  life  of  the  two  people  who  warbled 
them,  pleasantly,  carefully,  rather  inflexibly. 

'Who  is  that  singing  with  Stephen  Bosanfield?'  asked 
Mrs.  Ismey,     'Your  sister?' 

'Yes.' 

'It's  quite  delicious,'  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
shut,  and  that  her  attitude  was  that  of  a  woman  resting 
volu[)tuously  in  a  condition  of  the  most  perfect  physical  and 
mental  ease.  She  was  leaning  backward  and  sideways,  one 
arm  outstretched  along  the  curved  wooden  rail  of  the  seat,  and 
as  he  looked  at  her  she  let  her  head  droop  till  her  cheek  rested 
on  this  arm.     She  sighed. 

'  Delicious,'  she  repeated.  *  Like  a  dream.  I  could  listen  to 
it  for  ever.' 

The  respectable  English  voices  went  peacefully  on  inter- 
preting the  respectable  English  music.  Felix  listened,  and 
watched  his  companion,  and  felt  confused.  It  seemed  to  him 
unnatural  and  disappointing  that  Mrs.  Ismey  should  be  affected 
in  this  way  by  the  very  sounds  that  fought  against  a  similar 
mood  in  him.  He  was  almost  angry  with  her.  Then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  she  might  be  acting.  He  knew — none 
better,  for  he  had  studied  the  lives  of  all  the  Balzac  women — 
that  women  of  the  world  are  enormmisly  deceptive.  Of  course, 
at  this  moment  Mrs.  Ismey  was  being  deceptive.  He  resolved 
to  show  her  that  he  was  no  fool,  young  though  he  was. 

'Why  do  you  tell  fibs?'  he  said.  'You  know  you  hate  that 
music.     Why,  it  simply  slaps  the  night  in  the  face.' 

'Hush!'  she  said  softly.  'Don't.  A  speaking  voice  hurts 
me.' 

Felix  felt  hot  all  over.  She  had  said  the  words  so  exactly, 
as  if  she  really  meant  them,  that  he  had  the  sensation  of  being 
thoroughly  snubbed.  But  the  slim  figure,  leaning  sideways, 
seemed  to  him  deliciously  graceful  and  sleepy.  The  posture 
of  it,  too,  expressed,  he  fancied,  a  sense  of  intimacy  with  him. 
He  gazed  at  her,  and  his  momentary  anger  died  away,  and  he 
began  to  wonder  what  beautiful  women  look  like  when  they 
are  asleep — surely  very  pathetic  and  eerie.  It  struck  him  that 
he  had  never  seen  a  woman  asleep.  What  thousands  of  things 
he  hnd  never  seen,  and  so  had  to  see.  That  was  both  dreadful 
and  glorious. 

The  music  stopped.  After  a  moment  Mrs.  Ismey  lifted  her 
head  from  her  arm,  and  sat  up,  placing  her  hands  palm  down- 
irards  on  the  seat.     She  was  looking  straight  before  her,  and 


FELIX  97 

moving  her  Ups,  but  without  opening  them.  And  that  action 
gave  to  Felix  a  most  forcible  impression  of  a  person  struggling 
to  wake  up,  to  come  back  out  of  a  dream.  Some  one  looked 
out  from  the  drawing-room  window.  Mrs.  Wilding's  voice 
said : 

'  They  will  catch  their  deaths  of  cold.' 

'Valeria!'  called  a  man's  voice.     'Valeria!' 

Mrs.  Ismey  got  up  slowly,  stood  for  a  moment  resting  her 
hand  on  the  back  of  the  bench,  and  then  moved  across  the 
grass  followed  by  Felix. 

'  Well  ? '  she  said,  reaching  the  path  by  the  window. 

Mr.  Ismey  was  looking  out. 

'The  fly  has  come,'  he  said. 

He  drew  back  into  the  room.  Mrs.  Ismey  looked  at  Felix. 
Her  expression  was  much  less  vivacious  than  it  had  been  at 
dinner,  but  a  little  light  of  humour  flitted  across  it  as  she 
said: 

'  It  seems  rather  hard  to  drive  away  from  Paradise  in  a  fly, 
doesn't  it?' 

Her  remark  finished  in  a  stifled  yawn. 

'  Forgive  me,'  she  added.  '  I  am  a  little  tired  after  the 
journey  down.' 

'Ah,  and  you  ate  nothing  ! '  Felix  said,  almost  reprovingly. 

'I  shall  eat  in  the  night.' 

In  the  moonlight  he  thought  he  saw  a  sudden  gleam  of  quick 
anticipation  dawn  and  die  out  in  her  eyes. 

When  the  guests  who  were  not  staying  in  the  house  had 
gone,  Mrs.  Wilding  bade  good-night  to  the  others.  She  looked 
almost  haggard  with  fatigue,  but  still  tried  to  be  bright  in  her 
gentle  way.  As  she  was  going  slowly  upstairs  with  Margot  she 
turned  to  Felix,  who  was  lighting  his  bedroom  candle  in  the 
hall,  and  said  to  him  : 

'Can  you  come  into  my  room  for  a  minute,  Felix?  I  won't 
keep  you.' 

'  All  right,'  he  replied. 

His  voice  sounded  rather  ungracious.  He  was  longing  to  be 
shut  up  in  his  bedroom  alone  with  his  thoughts. 

'Well,  mater,  what  is  it?'  he  said,  a  moment  later,  entering 
the  long  low  room  which  looked  on  to  the  churchyard. 

Margot  was  there  standing  by  her  mother.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.     Mrs.  Wilding,  too,  looked  deeply  moved. 

'We  only  wanted  to  say  good-night  to  you  here,  Felix,' she 
said.  'You  see  this  is  the  last  night  we  three  shall  be  together 
as — as  we  have  been.     The  old  times  are  over  now.' 

G 


98  FELIX 

Margot  kissed  her  brother.  The  tears  were  running  down 
her  face. 

'Good-night,  dear  FeUx,'  she  whispered.  'Thank — thank 
you  for  everything.' 

'  God  bless  you,  my  boy,'  said  his  mother,  also  kissing  him. 
'  I  pray  that  some  day  you  may  be  happy  in  the  same  way  as 
Margot.' 

Felix  put  his  arms  round  her,  thinking  of  his  dead  father,  of 
all  his  mother  had  lost.  Her  pure  and  perfect  unselfishness 
went  home  to  him  just  then.  It  hurt  him,  and  made  him 
wonder  if  he  would  ever  have  the  courage  and  the  nobility, 
when  his  time  of  the  joys  of  youth  was  past,  to  lead  a  new  life 
in  the  hearts  of  others.  He  did  not  believe  he  could.  The 
idea  even  held  something  horrible  to  him.  He  went  out  and 
left  his  mother  and  sister  together.  And  he  shut  the  door 
softly,  as  men  shut  the  door  of  a  shadowy  church  when  they 
leave  it. 


CHAPTER    VII 

TWO  days  had  passed  since  Margot's  wedding.  Mrs.  Wilding 
and  Felix  were  alone  in  Hill  House.  Their  guests  having 
gone,  they  were  able  fully  to  realise  what  sort  of  pap  the 
departure  of  Margot  had  left  in  their  lives.  Felix  felt  that  the 
gap  in  his  was  unexpectedly  large.  In  his  home  he  was  quite 
lost  without  his  sister.  He  had  never  known  Hill  House  with- 
out her.  She  had  always  been  very  much  at  his  service.  He 
had  been  accustomed  to  hear  her  clear  voice  singing  in  the 
mornings,  to  ride  with  her,  to  scold  her,  to  stir  her  up.  Her 
very  Inziness-  had  become  dear  to  him.  He  knew  it  now,  and 
missed  that  which  had  daily  aggravated  him.  What  his  mother 
missed  he  did  not  think  about.  He  was  wholly  intent  upon 
himself,  wholly  resolved  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible  from 
this  altered  house,  in  which  there  was  an  atmosphere  which 
made  him  think  unpleasantly  of  age,  and  of  the  changes  brought 
by  passing  years. 

The  last  thing  Mrs.  Ismey  had  said  to  him,  before  she  drove 
away  after  the  departure  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  had 
been  : 

'  Au  revoir,  Mr.  Wilding.  Come  to  see  us  in  London  if  you 
are  ever  there.  We  shall  be  settled  in  Green  Street  by  the  first 
week  in  October.' 

He  could  still  recall  her  exact  expression  as  she  spoke, 
turning  sideways  in  the  carriage,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  escaping  from  a  function  that  must 
have  bored  her  very  much.  She  was  dressed  in  pale  blue,  with 
a  blue-and-white  hat  which  Felix  thought  most  marvellously 
impertinent,  and  she  looked  rather  like  a  beautifully  arranged 
doll  prepared  for  a  bazaar.  But,  when  she  smiled,  her  face 
held  nothing  of  the  petulant  vacancy  of  a  doll.  Mr.  Ismey  at 
her  side  seemed  almost  inappropriately  melancholy.  He  was 
very  kind,  however,  and  erhoed  her  invitation  with  meaning. 

'Yes,  come  and  see  us,'  he  said.  'And  if  I  can  do  anything 
for  you  in  town  I  shall  he  glad  to.     You  are  Ste['hcn'.s  hrother- 

08 


100  FELIX 

in-law  now,  and  he  is  my  oldest  friend.  I  might  be  able  to 
help  you.' 

Felix  wondered  at  his  evidently  strong  regard  for  Stephen, 
then  accounted  for  it  by  remembering  the  fact  that  they  had 
known  each  other  all  their  lives.  Apparently  people  who  have 
known  each  other  all  their  lives  are  forced  by  some  mysterious 
process  of  nature  to  be  at  the  least  vaguely  attached.  This 
marriage,  which  he  disliked,  had  brought  Felix  one  advantage, 
his  acquaintance  with  the  Ismeys.  He  meant  to  improve  it. 
As  he  knew  so  few  people  in  London,  he  found  himself  in- 
carnating the  women  of  the  great  world  in  Mrs.  Ismey.  Much 
of  what  he  had  imagined  she  had  doubtless  experienced.  In- 
stead of  fancies  she  had  records.  He  wondered  what  her  great 
friend.  Lady  Caroline  Hurst,  was  like.  He  wondered — well,  he 
wondered  very  much  about  Mrs.  Ismey.  There  was  something 
in  her  that  put  his  soul  on  the  qui  vive.  At  the  beginning  of 
October  she  would  be  settled  in  London.  He  resolved  to  be 
settled  there  too  by  that  time.  As  what?  In  what  capacity, 
what  profession?  He  did  not  trouble  very  much  about  that. 
He  was  young.  There  was  time  enough — time  enough  for 
everything  except  sitting  still  with  folded  hands  in  the  house  at 
Churston  Waters. 

Now  that  Margot  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Wilding  found  herself 
alone  with  her  son,  she  felt  nervous.  Their  new  relation  was 
that  of  strangers,  who  were  nevertheless  intimate.  FeUx's  lapse 
into  tenderness  on  the  night  before  the  wedding  had  been  b'lt 
a  momentary  lapse,  not  the  beginning  of  a  settled  policy  of 
gentle  consideration  for  this  very  lonely  woman  who  was  his 
mother.  The  barrier  was  still  there  between  them.  She  was 
conscious  of  it,  and  more  acutely  now  that  they  were  by  them- 
selves. In  her  silent  and  concealed  grief  for  the  loss  of  Margot 
she  felt  timid.  Painfully  aware  of  her  deep  sensitiveness  and 
dependence,  she  was  unusually  anxious  to  seem  cheerful  and 
not  to  be  a  drag  upon  her  boy.  Never  before  had  she  realised 
so  thoroughly  the  gulf  that  lies  between  youth  and  age.  Now 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  years  and  fatigue  were  almost  crimes, 
things  to  be  ignored  if  possible,  hidden.  Sincere  though  she 
was  she  began  rather  helplessly  to  try  to  play  a  part.  She 
strove  to  appear  lively,  vigorous.  But  her  face  was  pale  and  the 
words  came  with  difficulty.  The  exertions  she  had  made  in 
settling  the  details  of  the  wedding  must  certainly  have  tried  her 
severely.  A  heavy  exhaustion  rested  upon  her  and  would  not 
be  banished.     She  feared  it  made  her  very  dull. 

'Mater,'  said  Felix,  when  they  were  alone  together  in  the 


FELIX  101 

drawing-room  after  their  rather  silent  dinner,  'I  suppose  eight 
hundred  a  year 's  enough  for  one  person  to  live  upon  very  well, 
even  in  a  big  town,  isn't  it?' 

Mrs.  Wilding,  who  was  knitting,  looked  up  from  her  work. 
There  was  an  expression  of  anxiety  in  her  dark  eyes. 

'Yes,  I  suppose  so,  Felix,'  she  answered. 

She  paused  a  moment,  then  she  added  gently : 

'Of  course  city  life  is  much  more  expensive  and  much  less 
wholesome  than  life  in  the  country.' 

'That's  so  like  you,  mater,  talking  as  if  everybody  got  into 
debt  and  died  young  in  London.' 

*I  didn't  mean  to  say  that.     Still ' 

•  I  know,  mater,  you  think  every  one  ought  to  live  just  as  you 
do.     But  you  must  see  that  I  can't.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  suppressed  a  sigh  and  answered  cheerfully : 

'  I  am  not  quite  so  stupid  as  I  may  seem.  Of  course  you 
have  your  life  before  you.  Mine  is  behind  me.  But  what  is  it 
you  want  to  do?' 

She  laid  down  her  knitting.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  a 
decisive  moment  had  arrived,  and  tried  to  summon  up  the 
father  in  the  bosom  of  the  mother. 

'  In  a  few  months  you  will  have  your  own  money,  as  Margot  has 
hers,'  she  went  on. 

Felix  was  looking  excited.  The  prospect  of  having  his  own 
fortune  and  being  his  own  master  stirred  him  to  elation.  What 
would  he  not  be  able  to  do  in  a  few  months? 

'Yes,  I  know,'  he  said.  'Well,  mater,  I'd  better  say  it  at 
once — I  want  to  go  and  live  in  London.' 

He  looked  his  mother  full  in  the  face,  half  defiantly.  Her 
eyes  met  his  gently.  There  was  a  slight  mist  over  them,  for 
this  was  a  very  bitter  moment  to  her. 

'  You  are  tired  of  the  country,  Felix  ? '  she  said.  '  Your — your 
father  was  so  fond  of  it.' 

'I  want  to  do  something.' 

•You  don't  think  you  would  like  to  try ' 

He  interrupted  her  quickly. 

' I  know.  You're  going  to  say  farming.  I 'd  rather  be  dead 
than  be  a  farmer.' 

'What  do  you  fancy?'  she  asked,  with  apparent  calmness. 

'As  I  shall  have  a  certain  amount  of  money — enough  to  keep 
the  wolf  a  long  way  off— I  should  like  to  go  in  for  something 
artistic,  something  in  which  I  m'pht  make  a  name  for  myself.' 

*Do  you  mean  music  or  painting?' 

'I'm  not  sure  it  won't  be  writing.' 


102  FELIX 

'You  don't  think  you  could  write  best  in  the  quiet  of  the 
country?' 

'No,  mater,  I  don't.  You  forget  I've  got  to  see  life,  to  know 
men  and  women.  But  you  don't  understand,  and  I  can't 
explain.  You  see  you've  never  had  the  chance  of  knowing 
much  about  things.  It's  different  for  women,  some  women. 
Of  course  there  are  people  like  Mrs.  Ismey.' 

'Do  you  think  they  are  the  liappiest  women?'  said  his 
mother. 

'Oh,  I  don't  know  that  happiness  is  the  one  aim  of  life,'  said 
Felix  airily. 

He  stopped,  then  added  abruptly: 

'I  say,  mater,  d'you  like  Mrs.  Ismey?' 

Mrs.  Wilding  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  she  answered, 
trying  to  put  some  cordiality  into  her  voice : 

'  I  like  her  well  enough.' 

'That  means  you  don't  like  her,'  cried  Felix  hotly.  'I  knew 
you  didn't.     I  felt  it.' 

'I  don't  dislike  her  at  all,'  she  replied,  very  gently.  'I 
scarcely  know  her.  She  is  very  kind  and  pleasant,  and  very 
amusing.' 

'  Oh,  don't  try  to  get  out  of  it,  mater.  You  'd  never  hit  it  off 
with  her.     She'd  shock  you,  of  course.' 

'  I  dare  say  she  would  find  my  company  very  dull.  I  have 
lived  so  quietly  that  I  suppose  I  seem  behind  the  times.  She 
is  a  clever  woman,  probably,  and  accustomed  to  be  with  clever 
people.' 

'  I  want  to  be  with  clever  people,'  said  Felix.  'And  for  that 
I  must  go  to  London.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  took  up  her  knitting  again  and  bent  over  it.  A 
dull  red  flush  appeared  on  her  face  and  spread  to  her  neck. 
Still  keeping  her  eyes  down  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  delicate 
attempt  at  being  off-hand  : 

'There  are  a  few  months  till  you  come  of  age,  Felix.' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  he  answered,  with  impatience.  '  Oh,  I  do  wish 
I  was  twenty-one  to-day.' 

*  I  think  that — I  dare  say  it  is  trying  for  you  to  lose  Margot 
and  to  see  her  in  possession  of  her  money  before  you  are.  I — 
I  should  not  like  you  to  feel  as  if  I  were  standing  in  your  way 
at  all,  and  so  you  can  have  the  use  of  such  money  as  you  need 
for  any  reasonable  purpose.  I  believe  your  father  would  have 
wished  that.' 

'Oh,  mater!' 

An  emotion  he  could  hardly  have  defined  or  explained  surged 


FELIX  103 

into  the  boy's  heart.  Oddly  enough  it  was  half  painful.  Yet 
there  was  an  exultant  joy  in  it  too. 

'I  hi  pe  and  think  I  can  trust  my  son  not  to  make  any  evil 
use  of  his  father's  gift,'  Mrs.  Wilding  added,  in  a  low  voice. 

'  Mater,  you  are  a  brick,'  said  Felix. 

His  voice  was  husky  for  a  moment.  Indeed,  he  felt  suddenly 
as  if  he  could  cry. 

'I  must  go  and  have  a  smoke  in  the  garden,'  he  exclaimed. 

He  rushed  off  into  the  darkness.  When  he  was  gone  some 
tears  dropped  among  some  dropped  stitches.  The  long  drawing- 
room,  the  world,  were  very  lonely  to  the  mother.  She  wondered 
whether  she  was  doing  right,  whether  she  ought  to  withhold 
the  money  till  Felix  was  of  age.  She  was  full  of  fears  for  him 
in  his  freedom.  Perhaps  she  was  weak,  but  the  sensation  of 
standing  in  his  way  by  an  exercise  of  authority,  of  knowing  him 
kept  unwillingly  at  her  side  by  lack  of  the  means  to  leave  her, 
hurt  her  horribly.  She  shrank  under  this  idea  as  under  a  blow. 
Felix  wished  to  go  away  from  her  and  to  stay  away  from  her. 
Yet  he  had  only  just  returned  after  a  long  absence.  It  was  that 
absence  which  had  given  him  his  new  taste  for  living  his  life 
without  her.  A  secret  wound  bled  in  Mrs.  Wilding,  but  she  had 
not  a  moment  of  unkind,  even  of  sore  feeling  against  her  boy. 
She  kept  on  telling  herself  that  all  this  was  natural,  inevitable. 
But  that  night,  when  she  was  alone  in  her  bedroom,  she  pressed 
her  face  against  her  pillow  and  cried  long  and  silently.  And 
she  wondered  in  her  heart-sickness  why^ — ?  Why  are  life,  love, 
youth  as  they  are?  She  wondered  till  her  head  throbbed  and 
ached,  and  the  tears  were  burnt  up  as  if  by  a  fever  flaming 
behind  her  eyes. 

In  his  room  Felix,  too,  lay  awake  and  saw  in  the  darkness  the 
glad  processions  of  London,  arranged,  perhaps,  by  a  Parisian 
master  of  ceremonies,  dressed  by  Parisian  costumiers.  Mrs. 
Ismey  walked  in  them  as  one  very  sure  of  herself.  He  was 
there  too.  But  not  his  mother,  not  Margot,  not  Stephen  Bosan- 
field.  What  a  strange  and  varied  crowd  it  was.  From  the 
houses  on  either  side  people  looked  out  and  showered  down 
flowers.     And  Felix  thought  that  his  name  was  on  their  lips. 

He  forgot  one  book  of  Balzac,  the  first  that  he  had  looked 
into — Illusions  Perdues.  But  if  he  had  remembered  it  he  would 
have  felt  no  fear  of  the  future  just  then.  The  world  had  been 
made  for  him  as  woman  was  made  for  man — sometimes  to  be 
man's  mother. 

The  first  week  in  October  found  the  leaves  being  swept  from 
the  trees  by  an  autumn  gale  and  Felix  in  London. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  came  up  with  his  mother.  Mrs.  Wilding  made  the 
effort  against  his  expressed  desire.  She  said  cheerfully 
that  she  wished  to  settle  him  in  and  to  see  his  new  home. 
There  had  been  much  discussion  about  that  home  and  about 
money  matters  generally.  The  withdrawal  of  her  children 
from  Hill  House  made  it  necessary  for  Mrs.  Wilding  to  reduce 
her  expenditure  there.  She  had  a  little  money  of  her  own, 
as  well  as  her  third  share  of  her  husband's  fortune,  but  this 
was  not  enough  to  keep  the  establishment  going  on  its  former 
scale.  The  house  was  hers  absolutely,  and  when  she  first 
heard  of  Felix's  plans  for  the  future  she  considered  whether 
she  ought  not  perhaps  to  give  it  up,  and  to  take  a  smaller 
one  more  suited  to  a  solitary  woman  with  a  moderate  income. 
But  she  had  taken  deep  root  in  her  home.  All  her  most 
sacred  associations  clung  around  it.  Here  she  had  been  a 
bride,  a  mother,  a  widow.  Here  she  had  known  in  their  ful- 
ness two  kinds  of  love.  Here  she  had  wept.  Even  her 
tears — perhaps,  indeed,  those  most  of  all — held  her  fast  to 
the  place  with  invisible  threads.  She  could  not  bear  to  go. 
She  resolved  to  sell  such  outlying  land  as  there  was,  retain- 
ing only  the  garden,  to  have  fewer  servants,  and  only  to  keep 
one  horse. 

Felix    was    horrified    when    he    heard   of   these   proposed 
changes.     The   heavens  seemed  falling.     He  argued   hotly 
against  alteration  in  the  way  of  life  at  Hill  House.     But  Mrs. . 
Wilding  was  gently  firm. 

'  I  cannot  afford  to  live  alone  as  I  have  lived  with  Margot 
and  you,'  she  said,  *  It  would  be  very  wrong  and  selfish  in 
me.     Indeed,  I  ought  to  save  money.' 

'Why?'  exclaimed  Felix. 

'Some  day  you  may  wish  to  follow  your  sister's  example,' 
she  answered.  '  A  little  extra  would  come  in  very  useful 
then.' 

'  But  the  horses  !  You  must  keep  them,  mater.  I  shall 
always  be  running  down  and — one  horse  !   It's  preposterous  !  * 

Finally  Mrs.  Wilding  agreed  to  keep  one  carriage-horse  for 
her  own  use  and  a  saddle-horse  for  Felix,     His  remark  about 

104 


FELIX  105 

'  running  down  '  influenced  her  powerfully.  A  sudden  cheer- 
fulness was  born  in  her.  Frankton  Wells  was  only  about  an 
hour  by  train  from  London.  There  was  nothing  to  prevent 
Felix  from  coming  often,  perhaps  even  once  a  fortnight. 

*  You  might  come  pretty  often  for  the  Sunday  ? '  she  sug- 
gested tentatively. 

'  Of  course  I  will — nearly  every  week,  I  dare  say,'  Felix 
answered. 

He  was  full  of  gay  excitement  and  could  afford  to  be 
genial.  For  the  prison  doors  were  opening  and  freedom  was 
very  near. 

Nevertheless  the  necessary  discussions  with  his  mother 
about  London  arrangements  tried  him  sorely.  They  made 
him  feel  his  youth.  He  wished  to  grasp  firmly  his  manhood. 
Desiring  knowledge  so  ardently,  it  was  unpleasant  to  him  to 
be  made  to  understand  his  ignorance.  He  knew  nothing  of 
money  matters.  Even  the  frequent  and  elaborate  financial 
arrangements  and  expositions  which  occurred  in  the  pages  of 
his  deity  had  not  made  him  practical.  For  a  moment  he 
wondered  that  Balzac  had  done  so  little  for  him  in  this  direc- 
tion. Then  he  told  himself  that  he  was  by  nature  an  artist, 
and  that  artists  are  seldom  practical.  His  mother  en- 
deavoured to  be  so.  Indeed,  at  this  juncture  she  made  a 
call  on  all  her  powers,  and  even  sought  in  her  brain  and 
heart  for  worldly  wisdom. 

The  great  question  was  how  and  where  Felix  was  to  live. 
Mrs.  Wilding  thought  it  would  be  best  if  he  became  a  '  pay- 
ing guest'  in  some  nice  family.  But  he  would  not  hear  of 
this.  He  was  resolved  to  live  alone,  either  in  rooms  or  in  a 
bachelor's  flat.  At  first  he  had  wished  to  choose  some  Bo- 
hemian quarter  of  the  town.  Wild  visions  of  a  London 
Quartier  Latin  floated  before  his  eyes.  He  even  persuaded 
Mrs.  Wilding  to  let  him  go  up  to  London  for  a  day  to  have  a 
look  at  Soho.  He  came  back  with  one  illusion  lost.  Never 
had  Hill  House  seemed  to  him  more  charming  than  on  the 
evening  of  his  return  from  the  regions  round  about  Shaftes- 
bury Avenue.  The  dreariness,  the  dirt,  the  narrow  blackness 
of  the  alleys  swarming  with  miserable-looking  foreign  exiles 
had  depressed  him  to  the  soul.  Yet  had  he  read  of  them  in 
the  pages  of  Balzac  they  would  have  filled  him  with  desire. 
The  teeming  life  of  them  would  have  seemed  glorious.  He 
did  not  think  of  that,  but  only  that  he  would  rather  die  than 
live  anywhere  near  Soho.  St.  John's  Wood  occurred  to  him. 
Vaguely  he   recalled  some  talk  he   had  heard  of  an  artistic 


106  FELIX 

colony  established  on  breezy  heights  there,  of  musicians, 
painters,  authors,  actors,  a  happy  coterie  of  intellectual  and 
Bohemian  creatures  crammed  with  talent  and  with  bonhomie. 
But  his  mother,  also  vaguely,  thought  ill  of  the  neighbour- 
hood. She  was  sure  she  had  heard  that  it  was  either  un- 
healthy or  wicked,  she  was  not  sure  which.  Finally,  since 
Felix  would  not  hear  of  entering  a  family,  she  suggested 
writing  to  Mr.  Ismey,  to  ask  his  advice.  By  this  time  Mar- 
got  and  Stephen  Bosanfield  were  settled  in  the  rectory  house 
at  Frankton  Wells,  and  Stephen  said  he  was  sure  his  friend 
would  be  delighted  to  help  in  the  matter.  Felix  at  first 
shrank  from  the  idea  of  owing  anything  to  Stephen.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  was  fascinated  by  the  notion  of  getting  into 
communication  with  the  Ismeys.  The  latter  feeling  tri- 
umphed. The  letter  was  written  by  Mrs,  Wilding  under  the 
close  supervision  of  Felix  and  sent.  After  an  interval  of  a 
few  days  an  answer  came  from  Mr.  Ismey,  who  was  in  France 
at  di plage.  It  was  cordial.  It  suggested  Felix's  looking  at 
some  small  flats  he  knew  of  in  Victoria  Street,  at  Wellington 
Mansions,  asked  what  profession  he  was  going  to  take  up, 
whether  he  meant  to  read  for  the  bar,  to  go  into  business,  or 
what.  Felix  persuaded  his  mother  to  let  him  reply  to  this 
letter,  and  in  his  answer  could  not  prevent  more  than  a  hint 
of  his  secret  ardour  for  fame  and  an  artistic  life  appearing. 
He  wrote,  in  fact,  like  an  enthusiastic  boy  glowing  at  the 
prospect  before  him.  At  the  end  he  ventured  to  send  a  mes- 
sage of  remembrance  to  Mrs.  Ismey.  A  second  letter  speedily 
arrived  from  Mr.  Ismey,  and  one  that  set  Felix's  heart  beat- 
ing fast.  It  suggested  that  Felix  was  as  yet  very  young  for 
the  writer's  career,  that  it  would  probably  be  some  time  be- 
fore he  could  make  his  way — if  indeed  he  were  destined  to 
succeed  in  doing  so,  on  which  Mr.  Ismey  was  not  in  a  posi- 
tion to  pronounce  any  opinion — and  that,  in  the  meanwhile, 
perhaps  he  would  like  to  have  some  employment  which 
would  at  least  bring  him  to  the  portals  of  the  temple  of  litera- 
ture, and  in  which  he  might  make  acquaintances  likely  to  be 
of  service  to  him  hereafter.  If  this  were  so,  Mr.  Ismey  told 
him  to  call  at  the  publishing-office  when  he  came  to  London, 
and  added  that  there  might  be  some  post  vacant  there  which 
he  could  fill. 

When  he  had  laid  down  this  communication  Felix  felt  as  if 
his  dearest  wishes  were  on  the  point  of  fulfilment.  But  a 
thought  still  more  exciting  and  inspiring  rushed  into  his 
mind.     He  divined  the  influence  of  Mrs.  Ismey  in  the  letter. 


FELIX  107 

Then,  though  she  had  laughed  at  him,  she  had  seen  that  he 
was  not  quite  stupid,  not  quite  ordinary.  She  had  some  faith 
in  him.  A  rapture  of  self-confidence  filled  him.  He  felt  like 
a  conqueror.  When  his  mother  had  seen  the  letter  she  re- 
joiced too.  She  had  been  much  afraid  of  Felix's  going  to 
London  with  no  definite  occupation  in  prospect.  Dreadful 
accounts  of  the  fates  meted  out  to  idlers  in  great  cities  had 
recurred  to  her  mind  and  thrilled  her  with  alarm.  Now 
there  was  a  reason  for  her  son's  departure.  He  was  to  work, 
to  be  under  supervision.  She  felt  greatly  comforted.  A 
small  furnished  flat  was  found  in  Wellington  Mansions,  It 
cost  three  guineas  a  week,  and  service  was  included.  This 
would  do  for  a  beginning.  Later  on  Felix  might  take  and 
furnish  a  flat  of  his  own  if  he  found  that  a  London  life  really 
suited  him.  The  beginning  of  October  came,  and  with  it 
the  moment  for  the  plunge.  Then  it  was  that  Mrs,  Wilding 
announced  her  intention  of  accompanying  her  son  to  London. 

*  I  can  stay  at  the  Grosvenor  Hotel  for  one  night,'  she 
said^  '  and  settle  you  in.' 

Felix  protested  quickly.  He  scarcely  knew  why.  It  was 
not  entirely  because  he  did  not  wish  to  have  his  mother  with 
him  for  that  first  London  evening.  Indeed,  now  that  the 
moment  for  his  debut  had  arrived,  he  was  angrily  aware  of  a 
slightly  sickening  sensation  of  melancholy  at  the  prospect  of 
living  for  the  first  time  quite  alone.  But  he  remembered 
Mrs.  Ismey's  words,  that  this  debut  would  be  'eccentric  and 
superb.'  Now  there  is  nothing  eccentric  and  superb  in 
travelling  to  town  with  one's  mother,  dining  with  her  in  an 
hotel  coffee-room,  and  being  '  settled  in  '  by  her  with  ma- 
ternal injunctions  and  advice  as  to  the  avoidance  of  draughts, 
the  keeping  of  early  hours,  and  the  eating  of  wholesome  and 
nourishing  food.  So  Felix  protested.  Yet  he  did  so  half- 
heartedly. He  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  secretly  wanted 
his  mother  to  come,  that  there  was  something  in  him  which, 
at  this  moment,  stretched  out  hands  as  if  to  cling  to  her. 
His  consciousness  of  this  desirous,  clinging,  childish  thing 
— a  soul  within  his  soul — made  him  feel  very  reserved  and 
shy  with  her  as  they  journeyed  up  to  London  together.  He 
hardly  spoke  to  her  at  all,  but  read  papers  or  looked  out  of 
the  window.  His  good-bye  to  Margot  and  Stephen  Bosan- 
field  at  the  rectory  had  been  quite  cordial.  Margot  seemed 
supremely  happy  as  a  married  woman,  although  very  self- 
conscious  in  her  new  state.  Stephen,  too,  seemed  rather  less 
dry  since    he   had   become    a    liusband,  and    Felix    now  felt 


108  FELIX 

bound  to  accept  him  as  one  of  the  family.  Besides,  he  ap- 
peared at  present  in  a  more  important  light.  The  boy  could 
not  help  thinking  of  him  as  the  intimate  friend  of  Mr, 
Ismey,  could  not  fail  to  understand  that  the  clergyman  was 
not  above  returning  good  for  evil.  He  had  expressed  the 
greatest  gratification  at  Mr.  Ismey's  proposition,  and  had 
discreetly  concealed  his  surprise — if  he  felt  any — at  Felix's 
desertion  of  his  mother  so  soon  after  Margot's  marriage. 

The  train  by  which  they  travelled  ran  into  Charing  Cross 
station  soon  after  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  a 
wet  and  blustering  day,  and  the  station  square  looked  infin- 
itely dreary.  Rows  of  hansoms  and  four-wheelers  endured 
the  rain.  The  cabmen  sat  humped  in  shining  mackintosh 
capes.  The  horses  drooped  their  heads.  Moisture  glistened 
upon  the  paving  stones.  The  corduroy  worn  by  the  per- 
spiring porters  gave  out  a  suffocating  smell.  Mud  was  lifted 
from  the  road  by  the  wheels  of  passing  omnibuses  and  dis- 
tributed impartially  upon  the  hurrying  and  preoccupied 
foot-passengers.  Even  the  eternal  noise  of  the  city  sounded 
damp.  The  Wildings  engaged  a  four-wheeler  with  a  red- 
faced  driver,  who  looked  fairly  sober  but  as  if  he  wished  he 
were  drunk.  Felix  had  a  great  deal  of  luggage,  and  Mrs. 
Wilding,  seated  anxiously  inside  the  cab,  issued  through  the 
doorway  directions  as  to  its  disposal,  or  expressed  the  fear- 
ful certainty  that  much  of  it  was  lost.  Her  manner  was 
very  definitely  that  of  a  country  cousin.  The  porters  smiled, 
and  Felix,  standing  on  the  pavement,  reddened  and  wished 
his  mother  would  be  quiet  and  leave  things  to  him.  He 
thought  she  was  making  him  ridiculous.  At  length  every- 
thing was  arranged  and  he  was  about  to  tip  the  porters.  But 
he  found  that  he  had  no  small  change,  and  was  obliged  to 
ask  Mrs.  Wilding  for  some.  She  was  warmly  muffled  up  in 
a  cloak  and  had  her  icewool  shawl  wound  about  her  throat. 
She  could  not  find  her  purse,  and  had  to  get  up  in  the  cab  in 
order  to  seek  for  it.  This  was  a  matter  of  time,  and  Felix 
stood  at  the  door,  flanked  by  porters,  and  scarlet  with  vex- 
ation and  impatience.  He  felt  as  if  the  eyes  of  all  London 
we're  upon  them.  Mrs.  Wilding,  bending  forward,  dived 
into  the  back  recesses  of  her  costume.  Her  shawl  fell  off 
on  to  the  greasy  stones. 

'For  God's  sake  make  haste,  mater  !' whispered  Felix 
fiercely  snatching  up  the  shawl. 

When  the  porters  had  at  length  been  paid,  and  the  cab 
rattled  slowly  down  the  incline  to  the  gates,  the  perspiration 


FELIX  109 

stood  on  his  face.  He  turned  his  shoulder  to  his  mother 
and  glared  out  of  the  window,  which  was  open. 

'  I  think  perhaps  we  had  better  have  the  window  up,'  said 
Mrs.  Wilding. 

'  Why  on  earth  ?  ' 

*  It  is  dreadfully  damp.* 

*  Well,  if  you  want  us  to  be  suffocated  ! '  he  retorted. 

He  pulled  the  window  up  with  a  jerk.  It  stuck.  At  that 
moment  Felix  felt  as  if  he  could  dash  his  hand  through  it. 
He  struggled  with  it,  but  in  vain. 

'  Never  mind,'  said  his  mother.  *  Perhaps  it  is  better  to 
have  some  air.' 

Her  voice  sounded  rather  tremulous.  She  put  her  shawl 
over  her  mouth  and  leaned  back  in  her  corner.  Felix  did 
not  speak  to  her  once  till  they  were  in  Victoria  Street,  which 
looked  excessively  dark  and  dreary.  Then  he  said,  without 
turning  to  her  : 

'  Hadn't  we  better  go  on  to  the  hotel  first  ?' 

*  Oh  no,  I  should  like  to  help  you  to  see  to  all  your  things.* 

*  There's  nothing  to  see  to.' 

'  They  might  knock  about  the  trunks  carrying  them  up. 
They  are  very  careless  with  things  in  London.' 
Felix  suppressed  an  exclamation. 

*  And  then  I  thought,  perhaps,'  Mrs.  Wilding  added,  with 
a  little  attempt  at  brightness,  '  my  son  would  give  me  a  cup 
of  tea  in  his  new  home.  I  should  like  to  be  your  first  guest. 
I  think  it  would  help  me  to  realise  your  life  in  your  flat  and 
to  feel  that  you  were  comfortable.' 

She  paused  ;  then,  as  he  made  no  answer,  she  added  : 
'  Do  you  mind,  Felix  ? ' 

*  Of  course  not,  mater.  But  I  should  have  thought  you'd 
rather  have  gone  to  the  hotel  first.' 

He  felt  the  crude  ungraciousness  of  the  reply,  but,  for  the 
life  of  him,  could  not  be  cordial.  Strange  to  say,  as  the  cab 
drew  near  to  Wellington  Mansions  he  began  to  feel  almost 
stiff  with  self-consciousness.  He  looked  at  the  dark,  wet 
street  full  of  people  whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  a 
sort  of  dread  came  over  him,  an  apprehension  of  he  knew 
not  what.  The  cab  stopped,  then  turned  to  the  left  under 
an  archway  and  stopped  again. 

'  Ought  we  to  get  out  ?'  asked  Mrs.  Wilding. 

*  No — it's  the  horse.     It's  afraid  of  the  court.* 

A  man  in  uniform  came  out  of  a  door,  ran  to  the  horse's 
head,  and  led   it  forward  into  a  court  surrounded   by  higli 


110  FELIX 

buildings.  In  the  middle  of  the  court  was  a  fountain  falling 
into  a  big  basin  full  of  water.  The  horse's  feet  slipped  on 
the  wet  asphalt,  and  Mrs.  Wilding,  who  was  very  nervous 
when  driving,  uttered  a  cry  and  caught  hold  of  her  son. 

'  For  goodness  sake,  mater,  don't  !  Do  remember  where 
we  are  !  '  Felix  exclaimed,  hastily  disengaging  his  arm. 

The  cab  had  drawn  up  before  a  door  on  the  left,  and  the 
man  in  uniform  opened  the  cab  door  and  touched  his  peaked 
cap.  Felix  nodded,  and  jumped  out  with  an  effort  at  non- 
chalance. He  did  not  offer  to  help  his  mother  although  he 
wanted  to.  He  looked  sideways  at  the  man  in  uniform  and 
took  out  his  purse. 

'  I'll  pay,  Felix,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding. 

She  had  the  money  read)^  and  gave  it  to  the  cabman.  He 
looked  at  it  and  said  it  was  not  enough.  Felix  hastily  gave 
him  another  shilling.  The  luggage  was  taken  down,  and  the 
attendant  pushed  back  a  sliding-door,  pressed  a  button,  and 
showed  a  small  lift  lit  by  electricity. 

'  Oh,  I  can't  go  in  that,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding  hastily. 

*  Nonsense,  mater  !     Do  get  in  ! ' 
'  No,  I  couldn't,' 

*  There's  no  danger,  mum,'  said  the  attendant,  concealing 
a  grin  with  his  hand. 

'  Get  in,  mater.     Everybody  uses ' 

But  fear  gave  Mrs.  Wilding  firmness. 

'  I'd  much  rather  walk,'  she  said. 

And  she  turned  and  began  slowly  to  mount  the  narrow 
and  curving  stone  staircase. 

'  I  suppose  the  lady  ain't  accustomed  to  London,  sir,'  said 
the  attendant  to  Felix. 

'  Yes,  that  is— yes,  no.' 

He  pursued  his  mother  and  caught  her  up. 

'  Mater,'  he  said,  '  I  do  wish  to  goodness  you  wouldn't  go 
on  like  this.  You  make  me  ridiculous,  and  I  have  to  live 
here.     You  might  remember  that.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  stopped  for  a  moment.     She  was  very  pale. 

'  I  am  very  sorry,  Felix,'  she  said,  '  I  dare  say  I  am  very 
foolish.' 

'  Yes,  you  are,'  he  answered,  almost  brutally. 

He  was  tingling,  and  felt  sure  the  lift-man  was  laughing  at 
them  both.  They  reached  the  third  floor,  and  entered  the 
flat  in  silence.  The  attendant  had  turned  on  the  light  in  the 
passage  and  sitting-room.  The  luggage  was  quickly  brought 
up  by  a  strong-looking  lad  in  shirt-sleeves,  and  deposited  in 


FELIX  111 

the  bedroom.  Mrs.  Wilding's  bag  was  set  down  in  the  pas- 
sage. She  had  walked  to  the  sitting-room  window  and  was 
looking  out  into  the  darkening  court,  round  which  appeared 
lights  from  the  windows  of  other  flats.  Tears  made  them 
seem  blurred  and  confused  to  her.  Then  they  all  ran 
together  and  went  out. 

*  You  want  tea,  mater,  don't  you  ?' 

With  a  great  effort  Mrs.  Wilding  forced  herself  to  reply  in 
a  steady  voice  : 

'  Thank  you,  Felix.* 

She  turned  round  and  sat  down  on  the  small  sofa,  taking  off 
the  icewool  shawl  and  unfastening  her  cloak,  while  Felix  order- 
ed the  tea.     The  man  went  away. 

'  I'll  just  go  and  see  to  the  luggage,'  Felix  said. 

He  went  out  to  the  bedroom  leaving  his  mother  alone.  A 
black  melancholy  was  on  him.  Instead  of  the  exultation  he  had 
expected  to  feel  on  taking  possession  of  his  London  home,  he 
was  conscious  only  of  misery  and  desolation.  He  hated  him- 
self for  his  rudeness  to  his  mother.  He  longed  to  throw  his 
arms  round  her,  to  kiss  her  and  beg  her  pardon.  Yet  he  could 
more  easily  have  thrown  himself  out  of  the  window  and  dashed 
out  his  brains  against  the  asphalt  of  the  court.  Why  ?  He 
did  not  know.  There  were  within  him  mysterious  forces 
which  he  obeyed.  As  yet  he  was  too  young  to  sit  down  and 
marvel  at  or  try  to  defy  them.  After  waiting  a  few  minutes 
in  the  bedroom  he  pulled  himself  together  and  went  back  to 
the  sitting-room,  resolved  to  be  pleasant  and  cheerful  and  play 
the  host  in  a  right  spirit.  The  tea-tray  was  already  there  on  a 
table  against  the  wall  and  his  mother  was  sitting  near.  She 
smiled  at  him  as  he  came  in,  and  a  sort  of  passion  of  wonder 
at  the  simple,  unerring  goodness  of  her  nature  swept  through 
his  soul.  But  he  still  felt  shy  at  entertaining  her  and  could 
think  of  nothing  to  say.  She  insisted  on  his  pouring  out  the  tea, 
and  declared  it  was  very  good.  They  sat  opposite  to  one 
another.  Mrs.  Wilding  looked  about  the  little  room  and  made 
some  comments  on  it.  Certainly  it  was  not  at  all  ugly.  There 
were  a  piano,  a  sofa,  a  large  divan  under  a  white  bookcase,  a 
writing-bureau,  two  good-sized  armchairs.  The  walls  were 
pale  green  with  a  white  dado,  and  a  shelf  on  which  were  rang- 
ed a  number  of  blue-and-white  china  plates.  Several  good  en- 
gravings hung  below  them,  and  some  prints  of  hunting  and 
coaching  scenes  in  the  old  days  before  the  railways.  Above  the 
bureau  squatted  some  grotesque  Chinese  idols.  They  were 
rickety  and  had  bits  of  folded  paper  stuck  under  them  to  pre- 


112  FELIX 

serve  their  equilibrium.  On  a  little  table  stood  a  number  of  old 
silver  dishes,  pincers,  snuffers,  and  boxes.  The  electric  lights 
burned  brightly  and  there  was  a  small  fire  on  the  hearth. 

'  When  you  have  put  out  your  photographs  it  will  look  quite 
homelike,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness 
which  was  pathetic. 

Felix  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat. 

'  What  a  contemptible  fool  I  am  !  '  he  thought. 

'  Have  some  more  tea,  mater  ? '  he  muttered. 

*  No,  thank  you.' 

There  was  a  silence,  through  which  crept  the  distant  hum 
of  damp  London. 

'  Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  going,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding  at 
length.     *  You  will  want  to  unpack.' 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  so.' 

She  began  to  spread  out  her  cloak. 

'  Perhaps  I  could  help  you  ? '  she  suggested,  almost  timidly. 

*  Oh,  no  thanks.     It  would  tire  you.' 

'  Then  I'll  go  to  the  hotel  and  rest  a  bit  before  dinner. 
What  time  would  you  like  to  dine  ? ' 

'  Oh — well,  eight,  I  s'pose.' 

She  put  on  her  cloak  and  got  up. 

'  I  say,  mater,'  Felix  said  suddenly,  *  the  electric  light 
makes  people  look  awfully  white,  doesn't  it  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  it  does.  I  hope  it  is  good  for  the  eyes. 
May  I  just  peep  into  your  bedroom  ? ' 

'  Oh  yes,  do.     It's  all  right — jolly  small,  of  course.' 

She  went  out  into  the  passage. 

'  I  hope  the  drains  are  good,'  she  said  anxiously. 

'  Sure  to  be.' 

*  If  you  notice  anything  you  must  tell  me,  and  I  will  have 
a  man ' 

'Now,  mater,  I  won't  have  you  spending  a  halfpenny  on  me, 
after  giving  me  all  this  money  before  the  time  !  ' 

Tears — were  they,  could  they  be  of  gratitude  ? — came  into 
her  eyes.  She  said  nothing,  looked  into  the  bedroom,  felt  the 
mattress  and  the  sheets,  and  cast  a  long  look  round.  Here  her 
boy  was  going  to  sleep,  far  away  from  that  long,  sweet-smelling 
room  in  which  she  slept,  that  room  in  which,  when  he  was  a 
little  child,  she  had  so  often  heard  in  the  night  his  humble  little 
pipe  :  '  mother  ' — or  perhaps  '  father  ' — *  I  thought  I  heard  a 
noise  !  '  Her  heart  ached  with  longing  for  the  past  when  he  de- 
pended entirely  upon  her.  Now  he  was  her  gift  to  this  huge 
city.     As  she  stood  there,  her  hand  on  the  coverlet  of  the  bed, 


FELIX  113 

she  felt  as  if  she  were  all  a  living  prayer  for  him.  He,  too, 
stood  by  the  door  looking  at  her.  What  was  he  thinking 
just  then  ? 

'  I'll  ring  for  the  servant,  mater.  He'll  get  you  a  cab  and 
take  down  your  bag.  But  of  course  I'll  come  down  and  see 
you  safely  out.' 

'  Oh,  no.     It's  such  a  long  way,' 

*  Rot.     I  can  come  up  in  the  lift.     I'm  not  nervous.' 

He  forced  a  laugh.  It  was  difficult,  for  that  was  really 
his  hidden  apology. 

*  I  shall  stick  your  photograph  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
mantelpiece,'  he  added,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

Mrs.  Wilding  looked  at  him  and  pulled  down  her  veil  over 
her  face. 

After  a  rather  silent  dinner  in  the  coffee-room  of  the 
Grosvenor  Hotel  that  evening,  Felix  set  out  to  walk  to  his 
flat.  It  was  no  longer  raining,  but  the  ground  glistened 
with  wet  under  the  rays  of  the  lamps.  The  roads  were 
muddy.  All  the  people  who  were  walking,  except  the  poor- 
est and  the  soldiers,  carried  unfolded  umbrellas  ready  for 
use.  At  the  corner,  by  Victoria,  the  omnibuses  were  dis- 
gorging their  loads,  the  newsboys  were  hoarsely  crying  false 
news  of  a  sensational  nature,  pedestrians  were  hurrying  to 
catch  their  trains,  and  strange  and  evil-looking  loiterers 
were  waiting  about,  intently  watching  the  darkness  as  if  each 
moment  they  expected  it  to  bring  them  some  horrid  gift. 

Felix  looked  eagerly  at  the  sordid  pageant  of  the  misty 
night.  It  seemed  to  him  both  dreary  and  exciting,  full  of 
possibilities  which  were  vague  but  which  stirred  his  imagina- 
tion like  music.  He  had  come  out  from  the  hotel  in  a  highly 
strung,  nervous  mood.  Just  before  he  started  his  mother 
had  said  a  few  words — she  thought  such  as  a  father  would 
have  considered  it  his  duty  to  say  in  similar  circumstances — 
about  the  dangers  that  encompass  a  lonely  life  in  a  great 
city.  For  a  moment  Felix  was  secretly  amused.  Did  he  not 
know  them  all  in  the  pages  of  Balzac  ?  But  the  amusement 
faded  almost  at  once  in  an  emotion  which  seemed  to  prove 
him  still  a  child  at  heart.  When  he  said  good-night  to  his 
mother,  and  she  wished  him  happiness,  success,  goodness  in 
his  new  life — wished  them  rather  falteringly  in  the  hall  of 
the  hotel — a  sense  of  fear  and  of  desertion  overcame  him. 
He  put  on  his  coat,  took  his  hat  and  umbrella,  and  watched 
her — having  again  refused  to  trust  herself  to  the  machina- 
tions of  a  lift — slowly  going  up  the  broad    staircase  to  her 


114  FELIX 

numbered  bedroom.  Her  well-known  figure  looked  oddly 
out  of  place  in  that  caravansary,  and  the  new  loneliness  of 
her  life  suddenly  came  home  to  him.  He  felt  like  a  deserter. 
She  reached  the  first  landing,  looked  down  over  the  balus- 
trade and  smiled  at  him.  And  again  he  thought  how  terribly 
white  people  become  under  electric  lights.  There  were  two 
or  three  German-Swiss  waiters  standing  about,  and  he  made 
a  rather  self-conscious  and  shame-faced  gesture  of  farewell. 
His  mother  disappeared  down  the  corridor.  She  took  away  a 
good  deal  with  her.  He  felt  that,  and  went  out  into  the 
night  rather  like  a  lost  child.  Then  the  excitement  of  his 
freedom  mingled  with  the  nervousness  of  his  loneliness,  and 
threw  him  into  a  curious  condition  which  was  not  without 
fierceness.  All  his  faculties  were  singularly  awake.  His 
brain  was  alert  to  think,  his  heart  to  feel.  His  eyes  were 
everywhere,  observing  keenly,  swiftly,  darting  from  one  ob- 
ject of  the  night  to  another  to  make  a  prey  of  all  figures  and 
events.  The  gift  of  manhood  is  meant  to  be  used,  he  told 
himself,  not  to  be  kept  in  lavender.  There  was  joy  in  that 
thought.  Yet  there  seemed  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  in  the 
night  with  him  too.  All  things,  many  of  them  in  opposition 
to  each  other,  were  mingling  together  and  forming  a  great 
and  strange  chaos  like  a  huge,  round  globe  which  was  noth- 
ing and  everything.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
miserable  or  happy.  He  knew  only  that  he  was  almost  hor- 
ribly alive  in  this  mist,  and  noise,  and  light,  and  darkness. 

The  shriek  of  an  engine  came  from  the  station.  It  made 
him  start  and  realise  the  tension  of  his  nerves.  He  crossed 
the  road,  and  took  his  way  along  the  curving  pavement  which 
skirts  the  road  between  the  paling  of  the  station  yard  and 
the  underground  railway.  Just  beyond,  where  a  second  road 
cuts  across  at  right  angles  to  Victoria  Street,  there  is  a  large 
public-house.  On  the  far  side  of  Victoria  Street  is  the 
Standard  Music  Hall.  Although  Felix  and  Mrs.  Wilding  had 
not  had  very  much  to  say  to  one  another,  he  had  stayed  late  at 
the  hotel,  putting  off  the  moment  of  departure,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  felt  it  would  be  a  little  difficult  for  both  of  them. 
It  was  now  past  eleven  o'clock,  and  as  he  reached  the  pavement 
in  front  of  the  public-house  the  audience  began  to  stream 
out  from  the  music-hall.  He  stood  still  to  watch  them.  His 
curiosity  was  aroused.  Most  of  them  were  lower  middle- 
class  people,  shopboys  and  shopgirls,  clerks,  bookies,  soldiers 
with  their  sweethearts  or  their  '  pals.'  Many  of  them,  on 
getting  into  the  air,  stood  still  to  light  pipes  or  cheap  cigars. 


FELIX  115 

or  to  exchange  loud  remarks.  Some  turned  into  a  public- 
house  by  the  music-hall.  Others  crossed  the  street  to  catch 
omnibuses,  or  to  go  into  the  gin-palace  by  which  Felix  was 
standing.  Through  the  doors,  when  they  swung  open,  the 
broad  red  backs  of  soldiers  in  uniform  w^ere  visible  in  the 
glaring  light,  and  wreaths  of  smoke  circled  and  dispersed 
above  the  rows  of  glasses,  the  bottles,  the  gold-lettered  bar- 
rels, and  the  handles  which  were  perpetually  being  pulled 
down  by  tall  women  with  tired,  saucy  eyes  and  curling  fringes. 

Felix  moved  on  a  few  steps  till  he  was  exactly  opposite  to 
the  music-hall.  Then  he  stood  still  once  more  and  looked 
across  at  the  gaily  lighted  entrance. 

'  Seen  the  show  to-night,  guv'nor?'  said  a  powerful  voice 
at  his  side. 

He  looked  quickly  round,  startled  at  being  addressed  in 
such  a  place  and  at  such  a  moment,  and  saw  that  his  interlo- 
cutor was  a  short,  square-shouldered  man  of  about  thirty  years 
of  age  ;  neatly  dressed,  like  a  workman,  in  corduroy  trousers, 
with  large  flap  pockets,  which  were  kept  closed  by  buttons, 
square-toed,  wrinkled  boots,  a  short,  speckled  coat  and  waist- 
coat of  some  rough  material,  a  flannel  shirt  and  a  cap,  from 
which  appeared  a  straight  lock  of  brown  hair  which  had 
evidently  been  sedulously  curled  at  the  edge  round  a  wet 
finger.  About  his  bronzed,  bull  neck  was  knotted  a  bird's-eye 
handkerchief,  and  in  his  ears  were  narrow  gold,  or  perhaps 
brass,  earrings.  His  face  was  short-featured  and  resolute,  ab- 
solutely unself-conscious  and  unsmiling,  with  a  prominent 
chin,  a  small  mouth,  and  bright,  staring,  brown  eyes  set  deep 
in  his  head  under  short,  dense  eyebrows.  He  was  smoking  a 
clay  pipe,  and  had  his  hands  stuck  into  his  pockets.  His 
wrists,  which  were  exposed  to  view,  were  brown,  thick,  and 
very  muscular,  and  his  whole  appearance  suggested  industry 
linked  with  unconceited  self-respect. 

'  What  show  ? '  Felix  asked. 

He  liked  the  look  of  the  man,  and  it  emphasised  his  new 
freedom  to  talk  to  a  total  stranger  encountered  thus  in  the 
street. 

The  man  took  one  broad  hand  out  of  his  pocket,  removed  the 
pipe  from  his  little  mouth,  and  pointed  with  it  to  the  music-hall 
across  the  way. 

*  Over  yonder,'  he  said. 

*  No,'  said  Felix.     '  Is  it  a  good  show  ? ' 
'Whopping,'  replied  the  man,  with  laconic  gravity. 


116  FELIX 

He  smoked  for  a  moment  imperturbably,  and  Felix  was  just 
about  to  bid  him  good-night  and  walk  on  when  he  said  : 

*  See  that  name  on  top  ? ' 

'Where  ?  '  said  Felix,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

He  pointed  once  more  across  the  road  to  a  huge  placard 
outside  the  hall,  on  which  the  names  of  the  performers  were 
inscribed  in  red  on  a  white  ground.  Felix  looked  and  made 
out  the  words  '  Happy  Hal  Blake  '  at  the  head  of  them, 

'  Who's  that  ? '  he  asked. 

The  man  pointed  his  pipe  at  his  broad  chest,  keeping  his 
bright,  sunken  eyes  fixed  on  Felix. 

*  You  !  '  said  Felix,  astonished. 

The  man  was  entirely  unlike  his  idea  of  a  music-hall 
performer. 

'  I'm  Happy  Hal,'  replied  the  man,  always  with  gravity. 
•A  month  since  I  was  just  Hal  Blake  working  on  the  new 
harbour  at  Dover.  And  now  I'm  Happy  Hal  and  top  the 
show.' 

His  staring  eyes  seemed  to  require  some  expression  of 
opinion  on  this  transformation.  Felix  would  no  doubt  have 
thought  it  his  duty  to  give  one,  but  at  this  moment  he  was 
jostled  by  the  end  female  of  a  line  of  four  feathered  girls  who, 
with  linked  arms,  were  giggling  their  way  towards  the  Vaux- 
hall  Bridge  Road.  She  winked  at  him  with  preternatural  sly- 
ness, as  if  they  had  been  secretly  concerned  together  in  a 
hundred  cunning  deeds,  uttered  some  remark  in  a  piercing 
soprano  voice,  gave  her  united  companions  a  violent  tug, 
which  set  the  whole  lot  laughing  convulsively,  and  disap- 
peared with  them,  struggling,  round  the  corner. 

'  Can't — can't  we  go  into  the  public-house  and  sit  down  for  a 
moment  ? '  said  Felix, 

As  he  spoke  the  lights  of  the  music-hall  went  out. 

'  Well,  I  am  a  bit  dry  after  singing,'  said  the  man. 

'Let  me  give  you  something  to  drink.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do.' 

Felix  felt  excited.  To  his  raw  youth  this  episode  was  an 
adventure.  He  turned  and  went  into  the  public-house,  fol- 
lowed by  the  man.  It  was  thronged,  chiefly  with  soldiers,  but 
they  found  a  bench  to  sit  down  on,  beside  a  table  near  which 
was  placed  on  the  sanded  floor  a  spittoon. 

'  What  will  you  take  ? ' 

'  Pint  of  stout-an'-bitter,  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,' 
answered  the  man. 

Felix  ordered  that  nectar  for  them  both,  lit  a  cigarette,  and 


FELIX  117 

glanced  eagerly  about  him.  At  last  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a 
London  crowd,  at  last  he  was  face  to  face  with  life,  and  saw 
town-bred  men  taking  their  pleasure.  The  noise  in  the  public- 
house  was  very  great.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  talking. 
The  soldiers  stood  together  in  knots,  treated  each  other  and 
bellowed.  It  seemed  to  Felix  as  if  in  that  moment  they  were 
trying  to  throw  off,  almost  angrily,  all  the  accumulated  burden 
of  discipline  which  lay  heavily  upon  them  in  barracks. 
Among  them  some  civilians  looked  rather  mean  and  solemn. 
A  stout  woman  with  a  broad,  brick-red  face  stood  with  a 
small  man  before  the  counter  and  drank  some  beer.  She  was 
dressed  in  heavy  black  with  a  large  bonnet,  and  perspired 
freely  as  she  lifted  the  glass  with  cushioned  fingers  to  her 
mouth.  The  small  man  whose  mouth  was  twisted  into  a  meek 
expression,  looked  at  her  patiently  while  she  drank,  as  a  child 
might  look  at  a  monument.  Two  or  three  painted  girls  peeped 
in  furtively  through  the  swing-doors.  A  roar  of  laughter 
came  from  the  soldiers. 

'  A  noisy  lot,  ain't  they  ?'  remarked  Happy  Hal  calmly. 
There  was  something  very  individual  about  him,  a  firm  direct- 
ness that  struck  Felix  as  singularly  characteristic  and  decent- 
minded.  His  glance  was  unyielding  but  not  bold.  All  his 
movements  were  calm  and  simple.  Several  of  the  people  in 
the  bar  evidently  recognised  him,  and  now  the  red-faced 
woman,  breathing  heavily,  looked  round  at  him,  threw  back 
her  bonnet-strings,  and  fixed  her  small  pig's  eyes  upon  him 
as  if  fascinated.  She  had  just  come  out  of  the  music-hall. 
Happy  Hal  took  no  sort  of  notice  of  the  attention  he  attracted, 
but  repeated  again  : 

*  A  noisy  lot.' 

*  I  suppose  people  like  this  generally  make  a  row  at  night  in 
London,'  said  Felix. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  giggling  girls,  the  female  counter- 
parts, he  supposed,  of  the  roaring  soldiers.  The  man  an- 
swered,  *  Yes,  a row,'  using  the  workmen's  adjective, 

then  pulled  himself  up  short  and  begged  pardon. 

'  Oh,  it's  all  right,'  Felix  said  with  a  smile. 

'We  don't  mean  nothing  by  it,'  said  Happy  Hal.  '  But  if 
you'd  been  on  the  Dover  Harbour  you'd  be  the  same,  I'll 
lay.  Things  is  just  'abits  and  don't  mean  half  what  partic'ler 
parties  says.' 

'  Yes.     And  so  you're  new  to  London  ?' 

*  Right  out  of  the  Mint,  sir,  as  you  might  say,  like  a  Christ- 
mas tanner.     It's funny  how  things  comes  about.     Why 


118  FELIX 

am  I  Happy  Hal  and  top  the  show  ?  Why,  because  an  old 
gent  had  a  bit  of  a  cold  and  come  down  to  the  Dover  Bur- 
lington to  chuck  it.' 

'  What  old  gentleman  was  that  ? '  Felix  asked,  with  genuine 
interest, 

'  Why,  the  party  that  runs  half  the  London  halls,  they  do 
say.  Puckle,  they  call  him,  old  Joe  Puckle.  Know  him, 
guv'nor  ?  " 

'  I  can't  say  I  do.' 

'  New  to  London,  same  as  me,  ain't  you  ?' 

Felix  rather  reluctantly  acknowledged  the  damning  fact. 

'  Ah.     Every  one  knows  old  Joe  Puckle.' 

Felix  found  himself  wishing  to  goodness  that  he  did. 

'  Well,  sir,  old  Joe  he  come  strolling  along  by  the  harbour 
getting  the  air,  and  what  should  he  do  but  hear  me  singing 
"  Annie  Laurie  "  while  I  was  heaving  up  the  blocks.  First  I 
give  it  'im — unbeknownst,  of  course — in  the  one  voice,  and 
then  I  up  and  gave  it  'im  in  the  other.' 

'  What  !     Have  you  got  two  voices  ? ' 

Happy  Hal  looked  at  Felix  with  his  steady,  bright  eyes, 

'  Ah,  to  be  sure,  you  said  as  you  was  new  to  London,'  he 
rejoined. 

Felix  felt  slightly  irritated. 

'  Well,  but '  he  began,  rather  hastily. 

'  Fm  Double-voiced  Hal,  the  Dover  Nightingale,  in  the 
ads.,  sir,  and  earning  my  ten  quid  a  week.  They  give  me  a 
trial  and  I  took  on.  Old  Joe,  he  brought  me  to  London,  and 
when  they  wanted  me  to  dress  up  he  says,  "  No,"  he  says, 
"  let  the  boy  come  on  as  he  is  " — of  course  after  a  bit  of  a 
clean-up  and  a  bath — "  and  just  stand  there  nat'ral  and  give 
it  'em."  I  just  stood  there  nat'ral  and  give  it  'em,  sir,  and 
they  swallowed  it  the  same  as  I  swallow  this  stout-an'-bitter. 
Here's  to  you,  sir.' 

He  made  away  with  it  and  sat  staring  steadily  at  Felix,  as 
was  his  habit  when  he  had  finished  what  he  would  have  called 
his  '  say.' 

'  You're  in  luck,  then,'  said  Felix,  looking  at  him  with  real 
respect  and  curiosity  as  a  popular  public  performer, 

'  Ah.  I'm  going  to  the  Palace  presently,  and  if  I  take  on 
there  I'm  made.      Then  I'll  fetch  up  the  kids  and  the  missus.' 

'  Then  they  are  at  Dover  still  ? ' 

'Ah,  and  in  a  fine  taking  over  daddy's  being  the  Dover 
Nightingale,  I  can  tell  you.     Well,  guv'nor ? ' 

His   intonation   suggested   that  he  thought  it  time  to  be 


FELIX  119 

going.  Felix  got  up  and  they  made  their  way  out,  much 
stared  at  by  the  soldiers.  As  they  passed  the  red-faced 
woman  in  the  black  bonnet,  she  said  to  the  little  man,  in  a 
thick,  shrewish  voice  : 

'  There,  what  did  I  say  ?  It  is  'im,  I  tell  you,  it  is 
'im!' 

She  rotated,  so  that  she  might  observe  them_  going  out. 
Her  mouth  gaped,  and  the  tiny  eyes  looked  out  of  their  rolls 
of  fat  with  a  greedy  and  stupid  excitement. 

*  I  dig  in  Emily  Street,'  said  Hal,  when  they  were  on  the 
pavement. 

'  And  I  go  that  way,'  rejoined  Felix,  pointing  to  Victoria 
Street. 

Hal  began  to  relight  his  pipe  with  deliberation.  When  he 
had  made  it  draw  thoroughly  he  said  : 

'  Funny  our  meeting  like  this  and  both  new  in  London,  ain't 
it?' 

*  Yes,  very.' 

'  You're  making  a  start  here  too,  are  you  ? ' 

'Yes,  I'm  making  a  start  too.' 

' funny  our  meeting,'  repeated  Hal,  again  quite  un- 
consciously repeating  his  adjective.  '  I  wish  you  luck  with 
it,  guv'nor.' 

'And  I  wish  you  the  same.' 

'London's  a  rum  place  and  no  mistake  about  it.  When  I 
made  to  come  up  the  missus  didn't  like  it.  Afraid  of  the 
dangers  of  it,  she  says.     Dangers  for  a  chap  like  me  !  ' 

For  the  first  time  he  smiled  slightly.  Felix  thought  of  his 
mother's  fears. 

'  Dangers,'  repeated  the  man.     *  Not  likely  ! ' 

His  fixed  look  seemed  to  include  Felix  in  his  prophecy. 
He  put  up  his  hand  to  the  long  curl  respectfully. 

'  See  you  again  some  day,  guv'nor,'  he  said. 

*  I'll  come  to  hear  you  sing,'  Felix  replied  heartily. 

'  Right.  I  come  on  at  the  half  after  ten,  after  the  boxers, 
and  I  generally  stand  on  the  kerb  and  have  a  look  at  my  name 
on  the  board  as  they're  coming  out.     Good  night,  guv'nor.' 

'Good  night.' 

Happy  Hal  walked  sturdily  away,  and  was  lost  in  the 
crowd.  Just  as  he  was  disappearing  the  red  female  in  the 
bonnet  came  waddling  heavily  past,  attended  meekly  by  the 
little  man.  She  was  still  breathing  hard  and  persi)iring,  and 
Felix  heard  her  say  excitedly  : 

'  I  don't  care,  I  tell  yer  it  7vas  'im  ! ' 


120  FELIX 

Felix  felt  that  he  had  made  acquaintance  with  one  who, 
in  a  humble  way,  was  famous. 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  towards  the  flat.  The  little  con- 
versation he  had  had,  the  companionship  of  a  moment,  had 
cheered  him.  Already  London  seemed  different,  more  fa- 
miliar, less  terrific.  He  thought  about  Hal  Blake,  and  de- 
cided that  he  had  never  seen  anybody  who  looked  more 
calmly  respectable,  more  thoroughly  equal,  in  a  simple 
manner,  to  the  facing  of  anything  in  the  way  of  danger. 
Decision,  sobriety,  straightforwardness  were  written  all  over 
the  man.  And  yet  '  the  missus  '  was  afraid  for  him.  Fear 
is  doubtless  a  habit  of  many  women.  So  Felix  supposed, 
rather  majestically,  as  he  strolled  on,  mentally  connecting 
his  mother  with  this  humble  Dover  wife  whom  he  had  never 
seen.  Women  sit  afar,  poor  souls,  in  country  places,  and  are 
afraid — of  what  ?  They  don't  know.  Of  vague,  shadowy 
phantoms. 

A  sudden  pity  for  women  came  to  Felix,  and  made  him  feel 
tremendously  manly  and  capable.  After  all,  he  said  to  him- 
self, woman  with  all  her  charm  and  swiftness  is  inferior  to 
man.     Her  timidity  alone  would  make  her  so. 

The  hum  of  London  began  to  sound  to  him  like  a  song  of 
man's  triumph,  a  song  of  the  triumph  of  young  men  with  the 
world  at  their  feet. 

If  the  old  tailor  of  Balzac  could  see  him  now,  emancipated, 
his  own  master,  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  shining  thing 
called  life!  And  in  the  darkness  Felix  saw  again  the  clear- 
ing in  the  forest,  the  firelight  dancing  over  the  letters  on  the 
green  backs  of  the  books,  even  the  little  Honore,  yellow  and 
pertinacious,  and  the  little  Marthe  gazing  into  the  flames 
with  her  spotted  eyes. 

He  entered  the  court,  and  passed  up  the  dimly  lighted 
staircase  till  he  reached  the  third  floor. 

Then  he  used  his  latch  key  for  the  first  time  with  a  feeling 
of  triumph.  But  when  he  was  in  the  flat  alone  he  sat  down 
in  the  little  sitting-room  and  fell  into  a  dreamy  mood.  The 
Chinese  idols,  propped  up  with  their  wedges  of  folded  paper, 
stared  at  his  grave  face  with  their  sightless  eyes,  and  he 
stared  back  at  them,  but  without  seeing  them.  For  now, 
for  some  reason  that  he  did  not  try  to  make  clear  to  himself, 
his  spirit  had  flown  to  France,  and  was  trying  to  commune 
with  the  old  master  of  the  cottage.  So  vividly  did  Felix 
realize  the  tailor,  and  the  familiar  surroundings  in  which  he 
lived,  that  it  seemed  impossible  that  the  tailor  should  not  be 


FELIX  121 

aware  of  this  night  of  debut.  Perhaps  he  was  aware  of  it. 
Perhaps  even  now  he  was  sitting  before  his  hearth,  his  tufted 
chin  drooping  forward  upon  his  breast,  thinking  of  his  boy- 
friend, who  was  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  stream  ready 
for  the  plunge  into  it,  for  the  shock  of  contact  with  the  wa- 
ters, for  the  battle  with  the  currents  in  its  depths. 

Felix,  in  fancy,  saw  him.  Honore  was  sitting  by  his  foot, 
and  the  little  Marthe  approached,  holding  her  tail  high  and 
purring  as  she 

A  slight  but  near  noise  startled  Felix.  His  sitting-room 
door  was  open  ;  he  went  out  into  his  passage  and  stood  still 
to  listen.  This  time  he  heard  distinctly  a  cat  mewing  some- 
where, and  so  deep  had  been  his  dream  that  for  an  instant 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  heard  the  voice  of  Marthe.  Then 
he  smiled  at  the  delusion,  went  to  his  front  door  and  opened 
it.  A  large  black  cat  was  crouched  outside.  When  she  saw 
Felix  she  stood  up,  arched  her  back,  and  staring  straight  be- 
fore her  with  her  yellow  eyes,  which  seemed  looking  inward, 
and  which  in  the  semi-darkness  appeared  to  be  enormous, 
rubbed  her  head  against  his  leg  and  purred  with  all  her 
might.  He  bent  down,  called  her  Marthe,  and  stroked  her 
gently.  She  purred  louder,  and  lifting  her  tail  towards 
heaven,  tried  to  edge  her  way  into  the  flat.  But  Felix 
pushed  her  very  softly  and  carefully  out,  and  shut  his  door. 

He  went  to  his  bedroom  and  began  to  undress.  When  he 
was  just  going  to  get  into  bed  he  thought  he  heard  the  cat 
mewing  again  faintly.  He  felt  rather  lonely  on  this  first  Lon- 
don night.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  went  again  to  his 
front  door  with  the  intention  of  letting  the  cat  in.  But  when 
he  opened  the  door  she  was  not  there.  He  was  absurdly 
disappointed.  He  stepped  out  into  the  corridor,  and  even 
descended  a  few  of  the  stone  steps  to  look  for  her. 

But,  though  he  waited  a  long  time,  she  did  not  return. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THREE  days  after  his  arrival  in  London  Felix  went  to 
Green  Street  to  call  on  Mrs.  Ismey.  Those  three  days 
had  been  both  desolate  and  exciting.  The  sensation  of 
loneliness,  of  being  deserted  by  humanity,  which  he  felt  at 
moments  in  his  flat,  when  he  sat  down  to  his  solitary  meals, 
or  came  in  at  night  and  had  no  one  to  say  'Good  night'  to 
before  he  went  to  bed,  gave  way  to  an  ardour  of  youthful 
pleasure  and  interest  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  streets  among 
the  hurrying  crowds.  He  observed  everybody  and  every- 
thing with  keen  excitement,  but  he  did  not  analyse  what  he 
observed  very  closely.  The  analytic  mood  would  have 
required  of  him  more  concentration  than  he  had  to  dispose 
of  just  yet.  His  faculties  were  ranging  feverishly  over  a 
wide  field,  and  settled  on  no  flower  or  weed  for  any  length  of 
time. 

Strangely,  he  thought,  now  that  he  stood  face  to  face  with 
freedom  and  with  life,  the  Balzac  mfluence  seemed  to  decrease, 
to  ebb  from  his  mind.  The  Human  Comedy^  which  had 
played  such  a  great  part  in  his  soul,  which  had  been  so  terri- 
bly real  to  him  that,  at  moments,  it  had  been  as  his  own  long 
and  fulfilled  existence,  now  loomed  less  large  before  him. 
Its  events  were  less  full  of  significance  for  him,  its  figures 
less  alive  and  potent.  At  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  he  had 
felt  that  he  was  filled  with  all  possible  knowledge  of  men 
and  women.  Even  at  Churston  Waters  his  sense  of  power 
to  judge,  which  belongs  to  the  human  being  peopled  by 
experiences,  had  been  solid  and  enduring.  But  now  there 
were  moments,  and  not  a  few,  when  the  Balzac  figures  faded, 
the  Balzac  knowledge,  which  he  had  supposed  to  be  his 
knowledge  also,  became  but  as  a  crumbling  sand  foundation 
on  which  his  ignorance  was  striving  in  vain  to  find  a  foothold. 

Even  his  cynicism,  once  so  happily  complete,  now  not  sel- 
dom played  him  false.  He  found  himself  instinctively  in- 
clined to  believe  in  the  rectitude  of  those  about  him,  instinc- 
tively surprised  and  pained  when  anything  occurred  to  give 
a  shock  to  such  belief. 

An  attendant  at  the  Mansions,  a  middle-aged  man,  had 

122 


FELIX  133 

done  two  or  three  errands  for  him,  and  had  been  very  civil. 
One  night,  as  Felix  was  coming  home  from  a  theatre,  he  saw 
this  man  reel  out  of  the  bar  of  a  public-house  decidedly- 
drunk,  maudlin,  and  singing  a  doleful  song.  He  was  as- 
tounded. When  he  got  into  his  flat  he  asked  himself  why  he 
was  astounded  because  a  man  in  that  class,  when  off  duty, 
took  a  glass  too  much.  He  sought  to  reason  almost  angrily 
with  his  astonishment.  Yet  it  remained,  and,  when  the  next 
morning  he  saw  the  man  in  uniform,  sober,  respectful,  ready 
to  go  on  more  errands,  was  companioned  by  a  disgust 
which,  he  thought,  had  something  cowardly  in  it. 

Another  evening  he  came  home  in  a  hansom,  and,  on  reach- 
ing Victoria  Street,  gave  the  cabman,  so  he  thought  at  the  mo- 
ment, a  shilling.  Before  the  cab  had  driven  away  he  discovered 
that  he  had  inadvertently  given  him  half  a  sovereign.  He  knew 
this,  because  he  knew  that  he  had  had  only  half  a  sovereign 
and  a  shilling  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  he  at  once  told  the 
man  of  the  mistake.  The  man  promptly  produced  a  shilling, 
and  swore  most  positively  that  it  was  the  coin  just  given  to  him 
by  Felix,  who  said  nothing  more,  but  was  again  conscious  of  a 
sensation  of  amazement  which  he  felt  to  be  both  ludicrous  and 
inappropriate.  Had  Balzac  then  taught  him  that  he  lived  in  a 
world  in  which  poor  men  never  drink  and  never  cheat  ?  Or  had 
he  something  in  him,  some  seed  perhaps  of  youth,  which  was 
persistently  and  irretrievably  credulous  ?  He  wished  he  had 
some  one  to  talk  to,  some  one  of  whom  he  could  ask  questions 
without  fear  of  ridicule.  He  had  a  few  introductions  to  people 
in  London,  but  he  had  resolved  that  his  very  first  visit  should 
be  paid  to  Mrs.  Ismey.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  wish  to  seem  in 
too  violent  a  hurry  to  go  to  the  house  in  Green  Street.  That, 
he  thought,  would  be  boyish  and  wanting  in  dignity.  So  he 
spent  three  lonely,  but  exciting  days,  and  then  set  out. 

When  he  reached  the  house  a  pale  man-servant  opened  the 
door  and  told  him  that  Mrs.  Ismey  was  at  home.  He  felt  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  as  he  stepped  in  ;  but  when  he  had  followed 
the  servant  up  a  broad  flight  of  stairs  to  the  first  floor,  he 
heard  a  sound  of  women's  voices  talking  vivaciously,  and  his 
pleasure  faded  in  nervousness.  She  was  evidently  not  alone. 
I'he  servant  opened  a  door  and  announced  him,  but  appar- 
ently was  not  heard,  for  as  Felix  entered  the  room  the  voices 
went  on  talking.     One  said  : 

'Oh,  it  might  happen  a  hundred  times  under  any  man's 
eyes,  and  he  would  never  suspect  it.' 

The  other,  Mrs.  Ismey,  replied  : 


124  FELIX 

'  Perhaps  under  the  eyes  of  ninety-nine  men,  but  the  hun- 
dreth — Mr.  Wilding.' 

Felix  came  forward,  feeling  almost  guilty,  as  if  he  had  been 
caught  eavesdropping,  Mrs.  Ismey  was  sitting  on  a  large 
sofa  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  sideways,  and  facing  the 
guest  to  whom  she  was  talking.  She  did  not  get  up,  but 
smiled  and  held  out  her  hand  cordially. 

'  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,'  she  said,  in  the  well-remem- 
bered, drawling  voice,     'I  call  you  my  strange  debutant.^ 

'  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  mind,'  Felix  said,  taking  her  hand, 
'as  you  told  me  to  come.' 

'  Mind  I  If  you  hadn't  come  the  first  day  I  should  have 
put  ashes  on  my  head  in  the  modern  manner — gone  into 
mauve,  which  quite  becomes  me.  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
Lady  Caroline  Hurst.' 

Felix,  who  had  felt  rather  uncomfortable  at  Mrs.  Ismey's 
allusion  to  the  first  day,  turned  eagerly  to  the  other  lady.  He 
saw  a  rather  tall,  muscular-looking,  darkish  woman,  with  a 
thin  body  but  a  decidedly  fat  face.  Her  eyes  were  grey-blue, 
very  light  in  colour,  narrow,  long,  and  surrounded  by  tiny 
wrinkles  slanting  downward  to  the  cheeks,  upward  to  the 
prominent  temples.  Her  nose  was  short  and  straight,  impu- 
dent in  line.  Her  mouth  was  firm,  and  she  had  two  dimples, 
one  on  each  side  of  it.  These  did  not  give  to  her  face  a  genial 
expression,  as  dimples  often  do,  but  were  rather  like  deep 
dents  made  by  a  drill,  slightly  disfiguring  and  sinister.  Her 
complexion  struck  Felix  as  extraordinary.  At  first  he  thought 
it  was  a  dull  white,  but  immediately  afterwards  he  noticed  a 
strange  pinky — he  could  hardly  call  it  pink — look  about  it,  a 
sort  of  dim  flesh  colour,  oddly  unnatural  and  rather  disgust- 
ing. There  was  a  kind  of  puffy  self-possession  in  her  whole 
aspect.  Yet,  as  has  been  said,  her  figure  was  thin.  She  had  on 
a  black  toque  with  a  white  veil  pushed  up  from  the  face  over  it, 
a  plain  black  dress  and  white  gloves.  In  her  ears  there  were 
pearl  earrings.  On  her  lap  lay  a  horrible-looking,  little,  black 
dog,  with  short,  bristling  hair  and  cropped  ears.  Felix 
thought  she  was  the  coolest  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  Utter 
carelessness  of  other  people's  opinion  was  stamped  upon  her. 
How  ?  Where  ?  He  hardly  knew.  But  her  mere  attitude  on 
the  sofa  seemed  to  him  a  defiance  flung  at  the  wills  of  the 
world.  The  way  her  hair  was  done  and  her  hat  was  set  upon 
it  was  insolent.  One  of  the  arms  was  stretched  out  and  the 
hand  was  closed  tightly  on  a  sofa  cushion.  And  the  hand  was 
autocratic.      There  was  strength    in   her,    the   power   of   a 


FELIX  125 

thoroughly  devil-may-care  temperament.  It  was  impossible 
not  to  recognise  that  at  a  first  glance.  She  looked  about 
forty  years  old. 

When  Felix  was  introduced  she  nodded  to  him,  rather  as  a 
young  man  might  nod  to  a  boy,  stared  him  full  in  the  face, 
and  said,  in  a  musical  voice  : 

*  Are  you  the  Balzac  boy  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  said  Felix,  startled,  '  I  suppose  I  am.' 
He  glanced  at  Mrs.  Ismey. 

Lady  Caroline  said  nothing  more,  but  stroked  the  bristling 
hair  of  the  horrible-looking  little  dog,  and  still  kept  her  light 
eyes  fixed  on  Felix.  He  was  quite  unable  to  decide  what  she 
was  thinking  about.  Certainly  she  was  thinking  very  busily 
and  clearly  about  something.  Her  silence  was  extremely  sig- 
nificant, and  he  felt  embarrassed.  Mrs.  Ismey  made  him  sit 
down  near  her  to  the  right  of  Lady  Caroline,  who  showed  no 
desire  to  join  in  the  conversation  that  immediately  took  place, 
but  who  was  evidently  listening  to  it  attentively  and  critically. 

As  yet  Felix  had  scarcely  looked  at  Mrs,  Ismey  or  at  her 
drawing-room.  He  had  not  had  time.  There  was  something 
about  Lady  Caroline  that  was  engrossing.  But  now  he  gave  his 
eager,  young  attention  to  his  surroundings  and  to  their  mis- 
tress. He  was  always  very  quick  to  notice  any  special  feature 
in  a  person  or  in  a  room.  Mrs.  Ismey  seemed  to  him  at  a  first 
glance  slightly  less  notable  in  London  than  in  the  country;  not 
less  charming,  but  less  strikingly  peculiar.  His  imagination 
often  jumped  to  exaggerated  similes.  So  now  he  said  to  him- 
self that  the  difference  was  like  that  between  a  firefly  seen 
darting  to  and  fro  in  a  provincial  English  house,  and  the  same 
firefly  seen  in  a  West  Indian  forest.  The  firefly  had  appeared 
to  him  at  Churston  Waters  in  the  former  environment.  He  now 
saw  it  in  its  natural  home,  and  could  conceive  that  there  might 
be  more  fireflies  in  the  neighbourhood. 

And  the  home  of  the  firefly  ?  Mrs,  Ismey's  drawing-room 
was,  almost  inevitable,  like  many  other  drawing-rooms.  It 
was  very  full  of  pretty  furniture  and  pretty  trifles.  'I'iiere  were 
no  photographs.  That  was  a  peculiarity  of  it.  Round  the 
room,  to  a  height  of  three  feet  from  the  floor,  there  was  some 
beautiful,  pale,  yellowish-brown,  polished  wood.  Above  it  the 
walls  were  hung  with  silk  that  seemed  shot  with  a  number  of 
tints  of  pale  green,  yellow,  and  brown.  The  curtains  at  the 
windows  were  very  heavy  and  primrose  coloured.  All  about 
the  room  were  scattered  silver  trifles  and  ornaments.  There 
were  some  ivories  of  martyrs  and  saints  in  anguish  on  one 


126  PELIX 

table.  On  another  lay  a  quantity  of  miniatures  and  enamels. 
There  were  two  grand  pianos.  Palms  towered  in  the  corners. 
Felix  thought  it  a  lovely  room,  then  noticed  with  surprise  in 
the  midst  of  its  beauties,  and  close  to  the  sofa  where  Mrs.  Is- 
mey  was  sitting,  a  table  whose  cover  was  stained  with  ink. 
On  this  table  stood  a  solitary  teacup  and  saucer,  the  saucer 
half  full  of  milky  tea,  in  the  centre  of  a  turmoil  of  ink-stained, 
paper-covered  novels,  bent  quill-pens,  and  blotted  scraps  of 
note  and  manuscript  paper.  There  was  also  a  blotting-book 
drenched  in  ink,  on  which  lay  a  half-eaten  biscuit,  the  crumbs 
of  which  were  freely  scattered  about.  A  large  scent-bottle 
with  a  gold  stopper  stood  sentinel  beside  it.  Such  a  table  in 
such  a  room  was  like  a  ragged  tramp  in  a  palace,  Felix  thought. 
He  gazed  at  it  with  amazement.  The  half-eaten  biscuit  might 
have  been  gnawed  by  a  rat.  Perhaps  it  had  been  brought  in 
for  Lady  Caroline's  black  dog.  Then  he  glanced  up  into  Mrs. 
Ismey's  hazel  eyes  and  saw  the  satirical  look  in  them  he  re- 
membered so  well,  and  had  so  often  thought  about  since  the 
night  before  Margot's  wedding. 

'  Yes,  I'm  very  careless,'  she  said.  '  But  you  must  put  up 
with  it  as  my  husband  does.' 

Felix  turned  scarlet,  and  was,  as  usual  when  with  her,  just 
about  to  protest  he  scarcely  knew  what,  when  she  went  on  : 

'  Are  you  a  tidy  boy  ?  Don't  tell  me.  Yes,  I  expect  you 
are,  for  you  always  look  as  if  you  came  out  of  a  bandbox,  and 
yet  you're  not  the  least  little  bit  finicking.  And  there  are  so 
many  finicking  men  in  London.  Do  you  know  any  men  in 
London  yet  ? ' 

Felix  was  on  the  point  of  saying  no,  when  he  remembered 
Happy  Hal.  He  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  thought  of  him 
in  Mrs.  Ismey's  drawing-room. 

'  Now,  what  are  you  laughing  at  ? '  she  asked.  '  Every 
laugh  in  life  should  be  shared.     That  is  the  perfect  altruism.' 

*I  was  thinking  that  I  do  know  one  man  in  London,'  an- 
swered Felix,  still  smiling. 

'  Well  ?     And  what  is  he  ? ' 

*  A  double-voiced  nightingale.' 

'  Explain.' 

Felix  related  his  interview  with  the  music-hall  star.  When 
he  had  finished,  Lady  Caroline,  who  had  sat  all  the  time  in 
motionless  silence,  remarked  : 

'  To-day's  Thursday.  To-morrow  and  Saturday  I'm  dining 
out.  Sunday's  a  dead-letter-day  in  England.  On  Monday 
I'll  take  a  box  at  the  Standard  and  we  three  will  go  to  hear 


FELIX  127 

the  man.     You  will  both  dine  with  me  first  in  Great  Cumber- 
land Place.' 

*  Oh,  thank  you  ! '  said  Felix,  delighted, 
Mrs.  Ismey,  however,  looked  rather  doubtful. 

*  How  am  I  to  get  rid  of  Francis  ? '  she  said.  '  You  don't 
want  him,  I  suppose  ? ' 

*  I  don't  ask  him.     I  won't  have  him.' 

Felix  sat  amazed  at  the  authoritative  bluntness  of  this,  to 
him,  entirely  new  specimen  of  womanhood.  But  it  left  Mrs. 
Ismey,  who  was  doubtless  accustomed  to  it,  entirely  un- 
moved. 

'I'll  find  something  for  him  to  do,'  she  said,  *  or  something 
may  turn  up.' 

'  If  the  man  sings  really  well,  and  looks  out  of  the  usual 
mould,  we'd  have  him  back  to  supper  afterwards,'  continued 
Lady  Caroline. 

'  Oh,  but  he's '  began  Felix. 

She  cut  him  short  with  the  emphatic  remark. 

*  I've  got  no  Francis,  thank  Heaven.' 

'  Haven't  you  ? '  said  Felix  uncomfortably. 
'  No,     I'm  a  spinster,' 

'Don't  glory  in  your  shame,  Carrie,'  drawled  Mrs.  Ismey, 
rather  maliciously. 

Lady  Caroline  ignored  the  thrust,  and  continued  : 

*  I  actually  am  what  three-fourths  of  the  women  in  my  set 
secretly  wish  they  were.     I'm  free.' 

Felix  saw  a  strange  expression  flit  across  the  face  of  Mrs, 
Ismey  at  the  last  word.  It  suggested  to  his  mind  intensely 
bitter  incredulity.     It  was  gone  in  an  instant. 

*  Married  women  are  forever  talking  about  freedom,'  Lady 
Caroline  went  on.  'Why?  Because  people  usually  talk 
about  what  they  don't  possess.  Paupers  talk  about  money, 
cowards  about  bravery.     What's  your  pet  subject  ? ' 

The  question  was  put  to  Felix  with  exceeding  abruptness 
and  the  light  eyes  stared  hard  into  his.  He  hesitated  and 
glanced  towards  Mrs.  Ismey. 

'You  want  a  woman  to  tell  you  !' said  Lady  Caroline. 
'She's  bound  to  tell  you  a  lie.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  laughed  lightly.  A  sudden  impulse  to  be  pre- 
posterously truthful  came  to  Felix. 

'I'm  afraid  my  favourite  subject's  myself,'  he  said. 

Lady  Caroline  brushed  her  hand  the  wrong  way  over  the 
black  dog's  back.     A  dull  growl  was  heard. 

'And  are  you  a  good  topic  of  conversation  ?'  she  inciuired. 


128  FELIX 

She  did  not  smile  as  she  asked  the  question.  She  had  not 
smiled  once  since  Felix  came  into  the  room. 

'I'm  afraid — I  don't  suppose  I  can  be,' he  replied.  'I 
suppose  I'm'  too  young.' 

'  You  must  be  very  young  if  you  think  that  old  age  is  a 
good  bone  for  conversational  gnawing.' 

As  abruptly  as  she  had  opened  the  talk  with  him  she 
closed  it,  and,  turning  to  Mrs.  Ismey,  said  : 

'  We'll  play  that  Rheinberger,  and  then  I'm  off.  Come 
along.' 

She  got  up,  throwing  the  black  dog  in  a  heap  on  the  floor, 
and  walked  to  one  of  the  pianos. 

'I'll  play  first,'  she  remarked. 

Mrs.  Ismey  cast  a  whimsical  look  at  Felix. 

'  Forgive  me  !  '  she  whispered. 

'  Oh,  I'd  love  to  hear  it,'  he  replied  eagerly,  standing  up. 

'  Let  him  smoke,  do,'  said  Lady  Caroline,  with  her  back 
turned  to  them. 

•  Do  smoke,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  with  humorous  obedience. 

'  But  in  your  drawing-room  ! ' 

'  We  both  do  it.' 

'  Thank  you.     Then ' 

He  began  to  light  a  cigarette,  while  the  two  women  sat 
down  at  the  two  pianos  and  arranged  their  music.  Then 
suddenly  he  said  to  Mrs.  Ismey  : 

'  But  can't  I  turn  over  for  you  ?' 

'Me?'  said  Lady  Caroline.  'No,  thanks.  If  you  want  us 
to  appreciate  you  just  sit  quiet  and  smoke.  It  will  be  all 
over  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.     Now  then  ! ' 

She  began  playing  an  ingenious  extempore  prelude  in  G 
minor,  the  key  of  the  duet.  The  black  dog  set  up  a  howl. 
She  instantly  got  up,  lifted  it  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  dis- 
appeared with  it  into  an  inner  room,  in  a  moment  returned 
without  it,  sat  down  and  resumed  her  prelude.  Not  a  muscle 
of  her  fat  face  had  changed  during  this  proceeding  which, 
why  he  scarcely  knew,  made  a  very  powerful  impression, 
that  was  rather  horrible  on  Felix.  She  finished  the  prelude, 
looked  round  at  Mrs.  Ismey,  said  sharply  *  Now  ! '  and  they 
began  the  duet. 

Music  nearly  always  had  an  exciting  and  stimulating  effect 
upon  Felix.  When  he  heard  it  he  longed  to  make  an  effort, 
in  what  direction  he  knew  not,  to  accomplish  something,  of 
what  nature  he  could  not  tell.  It  also  stirred  within  him 
the  sleeping  dogs  that  the  timid  wish  to  leave  to  their  sleep. 


FELIX  129 

and  that  even  the  more  fearless  watch  uneasily  when  they 
begin  to  move,  to  shake  themselves,  to  show  the  light  in 
their  strange  and  animal  eyes. 

But  to-day  he  had  special  cause  for  excitement.  Both 
these  women,  with  whom  he  found  himself  alone,  and,  he 
felt,  in  a  sort  of  definite  intimacy  created  by  this  calm  re- 
sumption by  them  in  his  presence  of  their  normal  life  without 
him — both  these  women  had  strongly  marked  personalities. 
He  was  intelligent  enough  to  feel  instantly  the  intelligence 
of  others,  and,  as  he  was  inclined  to  shy  at  stupidity,  so  he 
was  moved  to  fly  at  and  cling  to  the  reverse.  At  this  period 
of  his  life  it  seemed  to  him  that  cleverness  never  moved 
without  its  child,  sympathy,  and  the  presence  of  sympathy 
set  him  in  a  glow,  fierce  and  ardent  as  the  flame  in  the  heart 
of  a  fire,  if — and  this  was  odd,  perhaps,  in  him — it  was  the 
sympathy  of  those  set  naturally  by  fate  outside  his  intimate 
life's  door,  so  that  they  could  not  claim  to  enter  as  a  right. 
The  sympathy  of  his  own  people  was  like  daily  bread,  and 
different,  not  exciting. 

Felix  felt  that  both  these  playing  women  were  very  intel- 
ligent. Mrs.  Ismey  he  supposed,  without  exactly  asking 
himself  why,  to  be  brilliantly  clever.  From  the  first  moment 
of  his  seeing  her  he  had  thought  of  her  as  a  brilliant  woman. 
Her  satirical  self-possession,  her  odd  habit  of  replying  to 
merely  mental  questions,  or  alluding  calmly  to  the  unuttered 
comments  of  the  soul,  had  startled  him  at  once  into  an  en- 
thusiastic belief  in  her  brain  power.  In  the  fascination 
which  she  had  exercised  over  him  from  their  first  meeting 
there  was  a  mingling  of  several  elements.  He  felt  that  she 
had  what  he  had  never  encountered  before,  a  chic  mind. 
Had  he  been  obliged  to  define  what  he  meant  by  chic  he 
would  have  said — well,  he  himself  wondered  what  he  would 
have  said.  One  thing  that  is  certain,  he  thought,  is  that 
nothing  stupid  can  be  chic. 

Lady  Caroline  Hurst  was  not  chic.  She  showed  no  pliancy, 
no  consciousness  of  others  in  relation  to  herself.  There  was 
a  certain  ruthlessness  in  her  demeanour  that  seemed  to 
Felix  to  be  Russian.  He  had  never  met  a  Russian,  but  that 
was  what  occurred  to  him.  There  was  something  almost 
barbarous  about  her,  something  cold,  strong,  carelessly  de- 
fiant. When  she  picked  up  the  black  dog  by  the  scruff  of 
its  neck  he  felt  that  she  could  vivisect  it  without  turning  a 
hair.  But  he  felt  also  that  she  would  perfectly  understand 
what  were  its  sensations  while  she  was  doing  so.     He  knew 


130  FELIX 

that  she  was  clever,  though  she  had  not  said  a  clever  thing, 
or  wished  to,  since  he  had  come  into  the  room.  That  she 
had  not  wished  to  was  a  sign  of  her  intelligence,  he  thought, 
and  also  showed  to  a  certain  extent  its  nature. 

In  both  these  women  he  knew — ves,  somehow  he  knew — 
that  there  was  something,  even  much,  that  was  sympathetic 
to  him.  He  was  surprised  to  find  he  had  this  conviction 
about  Lady  Caroline.  For,  in  a  way,  she  repelled  and  half 
disgusted  him.  Her  face  was  unbeautiful  in  contour,  in  ex- 
pression, but  especially  in  colouring.  Her  manners  were 
certainly  not  charming.  What  was  it  in  her,  then,  that  com- 
ing out  of  her  towards  him  attracted  some  part  of  him  so 
strongly  ?  Perhaps  her  lack  of  conventionality,  her  love  of 
freedom.  Perhaps  her  total  indifference  to  his  possible 
thoughts  of  her.  Perhaps — he  could  not  tell  yet.  He  might 
never  be  able  to  tell. 

Mrs.  Ismey  had  a  charm  that  any  man  might  be  conscious 
of.  Her  clothes  were  lovable,  for  one  thing.  He  remem- 
bered the  rustle  of  her  gown  in  the  garden  that  night.  Even 
that  was  individual. 

He  had  lit  his  cigarette,  and  sat  down  in  an  armchair  from 
which  he  could  see  the  faces  of  both  the  players,  Mrs.  Ismey's 
best.  She  played  well,  quite  brilliantly.  But  Lady  Caroline 
played  better  still.  He  noticed  that  at  once.  She  had  the 
authority  of  a  good  professional,  Mrs.  Ismey  the  deftness 
and  light-hearted  ingenuity  of  an  accomplished  amateur,  not 
untouched  by  a  certain  inconsequence  and  volatility  which 
were  absent  from  Lady  Caroline's  interpretation  of  her  music, 
Mrs.  Ismey's  face  changed  often  while  she  played,  but  nevei 
looked  severe.  It  was  always  the  face  of  one  engaged  in  a 
pastime.  Lady  Caroline's  was  heavier  and  more  stony  than 
it  had  been  before,  and  scarcely  changed  at  all.  But  it  re- 
minded Felix  of  the  face  of  the  statue  at  Tours,  and  he 
thought  that  in  its  immobility  it  was  profoundly  intelligent. 

The  second  movement  of  the  duet  was  a  canon  in  which 
Lady  Caroline  gave  out  the  theme,  which  was  immediately 
echoed  by  Mrs.  Ismey.  The  melody  was  delicious,  flowing 
limpidly  without  strain,  as  if  it  had  gushed  out  of  the  com- 
poser as  a  stream  gushes  out  of  the  earth  in  a  sylvan  place. 
But,  while  he  listened  to  it,  Felix  fell  into  an  odd  train  of 
thought,  which  was  directly  caused  by  it,  yet  which  partially 
diverted  his  attention  from  it.  This  canon,  and  the  way  it 
was  performed,  seemed  suddenly  to  make  clear  to  him  some- 
thing that  he  must  have  previously  thought  without  knowing 


FELIX  131 

he  thought  it.  That  was  exactly  how  it  seemed  to  him.  It 
gave  him  an  insight  into  the  relations  of  these  two  women 
whom  he  scarcely  knew.  Lady  Caroline  on  her  piano  com- 
manded, Mrs.  Ismey  on  hers  obeyed.  The  former  called 
the  tune,  saying  '  Do  this  ! '  the  latter  instantly  did  as  she 
was  desired  to  do.  In  such  a  canon  for  two  pianos  the  one 
must  inevitably  be  the  echo  of  the  other.  Felix  knew  this, 
knew  that  his  imagination  might  be  playing  him  absurd 
tricks.  Nevertheless,  as  Lady  Caroline  struck  out  her 
phrase  authoritatively,  and  Mrs.  Ismey,  an  instant  later, 
struck  out  its  echo  in  her  more  suppliant  fashion,  he  found 
himself  forming  two  words  with  his  lips  :  '  Master — Servant.' 
The  third  movement  carried  his  mind  away  from  considera- 
tion of  the  possible  human  relations  existing  between  the 
performers.  He  listened  to  it  as  he  had  often  listened  to 
music  before  and  enjoyed  it  with  a  less  restless  brain  and 
heart.  Directly  the  last  chord  was  struck  the  faint  sound 
of  a  very  ugly  and  vicious  wailing  penetrated  into  the  room. 

*  Heavens  !  Chicho  is  completely  out  of  the  key,'  said 
Mrs.  Ismey. 

She  struck  an  A  natural,  as  if  she  were  giving  the  note  to  a 
violin.  The  hideous  wailing  was  renewed  more  loudly.  Lady 
Caroline  got  up. 

*  He's  in  a  vile  temper  to-day,'  she  said. 
'  Why  ? ' 

'He  wants  something  he  hasn't  had,'  Lady  Caroline 
answered. 

As  she  spoke  she  glanced  at  Mrs.  Ismey,  and  Felix  saw  a 
sudden  expression,  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  one  of  disgust 
mingled  with  a  tinge  of  amusement,  come  into  the  latter's  face. 
But  she  only  said  : 

'  Oh,  I  see.' 

Lady  Caroline  pulled  on  her  white  kid  gloves,  and  as  she 
did  so  turned  to  Felix. 

'Don't  forget  Monday,'  she  said. 

'  No.     It's  most  awfully  kind  of  you  to  ask  me.' 

'Dinner  at  a  quarter  to  eight.  I  suppose  that  will  do. 
When  does  this  fellow  come  on  ? ' 

'  Not  till  half-past  ten,  1  believe.' 

'  Oh  !  then  we'll  say  eight.  My  number  in  Cumberland 
Place  is  one  hundred  and  seven.  If  you've  a  bad  memory 
write  it  down.  Good-bye.'  She  nodded  carelessly,  turned  to 
Mrs.  Ismey,  said  '  No  Francis,  mind  ! '  and  walked  into  the  in- 
ner room.     An  instant  later    she    came  back,    carrying    the 


132  FELIX 

little  black  dog  under  her  left  arm,  and  went  out  at  the  draw- 
ing-room door  without  addressing  another  word  to  either  of 
them,  or  even  looking  at  them. 

When  the  door  shut  with  no  uncertain  sound,  Mrs.  Ismey 
said  to  Felix  carelessly  : 

'  Of  course  you're  fond  of  dogs  ?' 

Felix  was  devoted  to  dogs,  but  he  had  conceived  a  perfect 
horror  of  Lady  Caroline's,  This  horror  was  just  then  par- 
ticularly strong  upon  him.  He  replied,  therefore,  with  a  tinge 
of  hesitating  doubt  : 

'  Oh  yes,  of  course.     Who  isn't  ? ' 

'Chicho  is  Italian.     What  d'  you  think  of  him  ?' 

*0h — well,  I  know  nothing  about  him.  But — he's  a  rum 
little  chap,  I  think.     Isn't  he  ? ' 

The  boyishness  of  the  remark  seemed  to  please  her. 

*  How  old  you  make  me  feel,'  she  said,  smiling.  '  Never  mind 
Chicho.     We'll  have  tea,  and  talk  over  your  de'but.^ 

*  Oh,  but  don't  have  tea  for  me.     You've  had  it  already.' 
She  looked  at  the  dirty  tramp  of  a  table  and  at  him,  opened 

her  lips  as  if  she  were  going  to  say  something,  then  shut  them 
and  touched  a  bell.     A  footman  came. 

*  Take  that  table  away,  please,  and  bring  tea,'  she  said. 
The  man  went  out,  carrying  the  litter.     When  they  were 

again  alone  Mrs.  Ismey  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  leaned  her  head 
back  against  a  cushion,  and  looked  at  Felix  for  a  minute  or 
two  in  silence,  but  not  as  if  she  were  observing  him.  Then 
she  said  : 

'  Now  I've  got  something  to  say  to  you.  If  you've  taken 
your  Balzac  to  heart  it  oughtn't  to  surprise  you.  I  must  tell 
you  that  I,  too,  know  my  Comedie  Humaine  very  well  indeed. 
You've  read  it  as  a  boy.  I  read  it  as  a  girl — and  many  other 
things  girls  don't  generally  read.  Perhaps  I  shall  judge  your 
actions  rather  shrewdly,  Mr.  Wilding  ;  judge  them,  too,  in 
relation  to  this  odd  education — if  it  is  an  education — of  yours. 
And  I  shall  very  soon  see ' 

She  stopped.  Felix  felt  as  if  everything  in  him  had  been 
suddenly  waked  up.  He  sat  down  quickly  on  a  low  chair  just 
opposite  to  her,  and  leaned  forward  with  his  hands  clasped 
and  dropped  down  between  his  knees. 

'  What }  See  what  ? '  he  asked  eagerly,  and  quite  fearlessly, 
like  a  boy. 

'  How  much,  after  all,  a  human  being  can  learn  from  a  series 
of  books  in  the  way  of  worldly  wisdom.  Just  that.  Now, 
how  much  do  you  think  ?  ' 


FELIX  133 

Suddenly  Felix  reddened,  remembering  that  there  had  been 
many  moments  when  he  had  felt  as  if  he  possessed  all, 
absolutely  all,  worldly  knowledge. 

'  You  mean  without  experience  of  his  own  ? '  he  asked,  with 
some  hesitation. 

'  Yes.     You've  had  absolutely  none — you  say  ?' 

*  None,'  he  said  humbly. 

It  seemed  to  him  almost  shameful  to  have  had  none. 
'  Well  ! '   she    said,     '  aren't   you     going    to    answer     my 
question  ?  * 

*  It's  rather  difficult  to,  but  I  suppose  one  ought  to  be  able 
to  apply  a  good  deal  of  book-knowledge  to  real  life,  if  the 
books  one  has  read  are  true  to  life.' 

'  Ah  !' 

She  spoke  the  word  with  an  intonation  which  gave  him  no 
clue  as  to  whether  she  agreed  or  disagreed  with  his  remark. 
Was  it  silly  ?  He  wondered.  He  felt  very  doubtful  of  him- 
self with  her.  After  a  pause,  which  seemed  to  him  long,  she 
lifted  her  head  from  the  cushion,  sat  straight  up,  and  said  : 

'  You  remember  the  letter  my  husband  wrote  to  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  he  answered  eagerly.  '  And  I've  been  wanting  ever 
since  to  thank  you ' 

'Me!'  she  interrupted,     'Why?' 

'  Why,  because,  of  course,  I  knew  directly  that  you  had ' 

'  My  dear  boy,  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  letter.  If  I 
had  had  it  would  never  have  been  written.  That's  Irish,  but 
true.' 

Felix  felt  as  if  he  had  been  plunged  into  cold  water. 

'  Oh,  I  thought — I  thought,  of  course '  he  began. 

'  In  your  generosity  you  gave  me  the  old-fashioned  role  of 
good  fairy.  No.  I  said  just  now  I  had  something  to  say  to 
you.  It  will  prove  to  you  at  once  how  utterly  wrong  your 
idea  was.  You  wrote,  didn't  you,  to  say  you  would  be  de- 
lighted to  go  into  my  husband'  office  if  a  place  could  be  foimd 
there  for  you  ?  ' 

*Yes,'  he  said,  wondering. 

'  I  want  you  to  refuse  to  do  that.' 

Felix  said  nothing.  In  the  first  moment'of  suprise  he  felt 
crushed,  liked  a  man  whose  career  is  suddenly  swept  away 
from  him.  She  saw  his'obvious  confusion  and  distress,  for  his 
face  showed  them  vividly,  as  it  showed  nearly  all  his  feelings. 

'  Forgive  me  for  asking  you,'  she  said,  with  a  gentleness 
that  he  had  never  noticed  in  her  before.  *  As  far  as  the 
money's  concerned  such  a  post  isn't  necessary  to  you,  is  it  ? ' 


134  FELIX 

'  Oh  no.  Not  at  all,'  he  replied  quickly,  reddening.  '  I 
wasn't  thinking  of  that.' 

'  You  needn't  explain  that  you  weren't — to  me,' 

There  was  a  touch  of  satire  in  her  voice. 

'  I  had  to  ask,'  she  continued.  '  If  that  is  so,  then  you  can 
do  what  I  want.     Will  you  ? ' 

'  Of  course  I  will.' 

'  And  you  won't  say  a  word  to  my  husband,  or  to  any  one. 
of  our  having  talked  this  matter  over.' 

'No.' 

'  It  will  be  our  secret.' 

As  she  said  the  last  words  she  looked  into  his  face,  and,  for 
the  first  time  with  her,  Felix  felt  the  man  in  him  stronger  than 
the  child,  felt  that  she  was  depending  upon  him,  trusting  to 
him.  This  sensation  changed  him  at  once  from  a  depressed 
boy  into  an  exultant  youth.  He  forgot  th  probable,  the 
certain  awkwardness  of  the  position  in  which  Mrs.  Ismey  was 
calmly  placing  him,  without  explanation.  He  was  only  con- 
scious that  a  fascinating  woman,  who  knew  all  the  things  he 
did  not  know,  was  relying  upon  his  honour,  was  sharing  with 
him  a  secret.     And  he  was  glad  as  he  said,  '  Yes,  our  secret.' 

As  he  spoke  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and  Mr.  Ismey 
came  in.  In  a  flash  Felix  was  conscious  of  the  extreme  dif- 
ficulty— yes,  in  a  small  way  the  difficulty  was  extreme — in 
which  he  was  placed.  He  jumped  up  from  his  chair  feeling 
like  a  criminal.  Mr.  Ismey  shut  the  door  and  came  up  to 
him  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

'  What,  Wilding  ! '  he  said.  '  I'm  very  glad.  We  expected 
you  this  month.' 

Just  then  the  servant  returned  with  the  tea.  He  put  it 
down  on  a  table  by  Mrs.  Ismey's  sofa,  arranged  everything 
with  quiet  precision,  and  went  out.  His  entrance  had  made 
a  momentary  diversion,  and  enabled  Felix  to  notice  the  un- 
ruffled calm  of  Mrs.  Ismey.  She  smiled  at  her  husband  and 
said  : 

'  You  see  he  has  kept  his  promise  and  paid  his  first  visit 
to  us.' 

*  Capital,'  Mr.  Ismey  said  cordially,  sitting  down  opposite  to 
his  wife.  '  I  have  been  thinking  about  you  since  I  have  been 
back  at  the  office.' 

Felix  felt  horribly  uncomfortable,  so  much  so  that  he  was 
physically  affected.  When  Mrs.  Ismey  gave  him  his  tea-cup 
he  took  it  with  a  hand  that  was  slightly  trembling.  He  saw 
her  lips  press  themselves  together,  and  cursed  himself.     What 


FELIX  135 

a  pitiful  display  he  was  making.  And  she  was  so  perfectly 
cool,  almost  miraculously  cool,  he  thought,  as  many  men  have 
thought  about  many  women  in  such  hole-and-corner  crises. 

'  It's  awfully  good  of  you,'  he  said  gruffly,  in  a  manner  not 
his  own. 

'  Valeria,  this  tea  is  terribly  strong,'  Mr.  Ismey  said. 

*  I  like  it  strong,'  she  answered. 

*I  know  you  do,  but,  as  you  drink  so  much  tea,  it  is  very 
bad  for  you.' 

She  slightly  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

*  Let  me  give  you  some  hot  water,  then,'  she  said. 

'Yes,*  he  replied,  holding  out  his  cup.  'But  put  some  in 
yours  too.' 

She  said  nothing,  but  Felix  noticed  that  immediately  after- 
wards she  drank  a  cup  of  tea  to  which  she  had  not  added  any 
water. 

'  How  are  all  your  people,  and  how  is  Stephen  ?  'Mr.  Ismey 
said,  turning  again  to  Felix. 

The  peculiar  sadness  which  Felix  had  noticed  before  in  his 
expression  was  still  there.  Some  melancholy  had  apparently 
stamped  its  sign-manual  upon  him,  some  permanent  melan- 
choly. 

'They  are  all  well,  thank  you,'  Felix  answered,  still 
uneasily. 

*  And  the  marriage  is  a  success,  I  am  sure.' 

*  Oh  yes,  I  believe  so.' 
'Stephen  will  be  a  good  husband,' 

'  Stephen  is  a  pearl  above  price,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  without 
a  shade  of  irony. 

Mr.  Ismey  glanced  at  her  quietly.  As  he  did  so  she 
poured  herself  out  another  cup  of  almost  black  tea  and  began 
to  drink  it.     He  looked  away. 

'  How  is  the  fiat  ? '  he  asked  Felix.  '  Do  you  feel  at  home 
in  it  yet  ?  ' 

'  Well,  perhaps  hardly  that.  But  it's  just  the  thing  for  me. 
It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble,  and  we 
are — we  are  tremendously  obliged  to  you.' 

The  cordiality  which  he  threw  into  his  voice  sounded  to 
himself  unnatural,  because  he  was  trying  to  make  it  do  a 
double  duty.  He  knew  that,  later,  he  would  be  forced  to 
seem  strangely  ungracious,  even  ungrateful. 

'You  will  feel  far  more  at  home  when  you  are  settled  down 
to  work,  Mr.  Ismey  said,  with  a  kindly  meaning  that  made 
Felix  feel  hot.     'There's  nothing  like  work  for  making  men 


136  FELIX 

feel  at  home  in  strange  places,  or  the  want  of  it  for  making 
them  feel  quite  homeless  anywhere.' 

'  My  dear  Francis,  you  ought  to  have  entered  Stephen's 
profession.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  spoke  very  sweetly  and  simply,  with  a  bright 
smile  at  her  husband.  He  took  no  notice  of  her  remark,  and 
did  not  look  as  if  he  had  heard  it. 

'You  will  find  that,  Wilding,'  he  continued. 

'  I'm  sure  it's  much  better  to  have  something  to  do,'  said 
Felix. 

'  It's  a  curse  not  to,'  said  Mr,  Ismey  rather  moodily. 

'  Dear  me  !  '  said  Mrs.  Ismey.  '  Then  are  all  of  us  poor 
idle  women  cursed  ?  Do  you  include  us  in  one  comprehen- 
sive damnation,  Francis  ? ' 

'  I  was  speaking  of  men,'  he  said  quietly. 

'  Are  we  so  different  that  what  is  a  curse  to  them  is  a 
blessing  to  us  ? ' 

'  I  did  not  say  idleness  was  a  blessing  to  anybody,  but  it 
is  probably  more  natural  to  you  than  to  us.  An  idle  man  is 
contemptible.     An  idle  woman  may  at  least  be  charming.' 

'  Mv  husband  is  really  one  of  the  old-fashioned  men  who 
would'  like  to  see  their  womenkind  always  busy  about  the 
house,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said  to  Felix.  '  Counting  napkins  and 
putting  labels  on  preserve  pots.  Now  I  should  make  mis- 
takes in  my  addition,  and  think  honey  was  marmalade. 
That  is  where  progress  is  taking  the  female  sex.' 

Mr.  Ismey  smiled. 

'  I  cannot  conceive  you  in  the  role  of  the  good  housewife, 
Valeria,'  he  said.     '  But  now,  Wilding  about  our  business.' 

'Our  business?'  Felix  echoed,  stealing  a  quick  glance  at 
Mrs.  Ismey,  who  was  glancing  dreamily  towards  the  window 
as  if  she  had  abruptly  fallen  into  a  reverie. 

*  Yes  ;  when  are  you  coming  to  pay  me  a  visit  at  the  office  ?  * 

'  I — I  could  come  any  day.' 

'To-morrow  morning,  for  instance  ?* 

Felix  felt  his  heart  sink. 

'  Yes,'  he  said.     '  But  I  don't  want  to  bother  you.' 

'  I  don't  ask  you  to  come  to  bother  me,  but  to  help  me.' 

'  I — I'm  afraid  I  could  not  be  of  much  use,'  Felix  said. 

Mr.  Ismey  seemed  suddenly  struck  by  the  discomfort  of 
his  manner  and  looked  at  him  rather  narrowly  and  Felix 
fancied,  with  a  kind  of  severity. 

'  If  I  were  you,'  he  said,  with  a  good-nature  which  Felix 
feared  was  prompted  by  a  secret  contempt, '  I  would  make 


FELIX  137 

up  my  mind  that  there  was  a  great  power  of  being  of  use 
both  to  myself  and  others  in  me.  To  have  that  feeling  and 
to  be  able  to  rest  upon  it  is  to  be  halfway  to  success.' 

'Francis,  I  was  right,' interposed  his  wife.  'You  could 
completely  cut  out  Stephen.' 

'  I  feel  sure  that  in  the  office  you  will  be  able  to  do  good 
work  for  the  firm,'  said  Mr.  Ismey,  ignoring  the  interruption, 
'And  that  it  will  be  fortunate  for  us  in  the  end  to  have  you 
in  your  beginning.' 

Felix  understood  the  delicacy  which  prompted  the  remark, 
the  desire  that  he  should  think  that  any  obligation  there  was 
would  be  equally  divided.  Considering  Mr.  Ismey's  position 
and  his  there  was  a  very  charming  tact  shown  towards  him. 
He  felt  it  painfully,  but  a  secret  sense  of  guilt,  which  it  was 
very  evident  was  not  shared  by  Mrs.  Ismey,  prevented  him 
from  being  able  to  show  anything  but  discomfort. 

'I'm  glad  if  you  think  I  could  be  of  any  use,'  he  began, 
and  then  stopped  short,  wondering  if  he  were  not  accept- 
ing the  post  he  had  just  promised  Mrs.  Ismey  to  refuse. 

'You're  most  awfully  good  to  me,'  he  concluded,  lamely 
but  with  genuine  feeling. 

As  he  said  the  last  words  he  got  up  to  go.  Mrs.  Ismey 
said  good-bye  to  him  with  something  of  the  sweet  brightness 
she  had  shown  towards  her  husband  when  she  was  compar- 
ing him  to  Stephen.  And  Felix,  remembering  it,  felt  as  if 
he  were  being  punished,  whipped  with  a  silken  thread  that 
hurt  because  of  the  intention  with  which  it  was  used.  Mr. 
Ismey  went  with  him  downstairs  to  the  front  door  and 
there  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

'  Good-bye,  my  boy,'  he  said.  'And  good  luck  in  London. 
Come  to  Norwich  Street,  Strand,  to-morrow  at  twelve.' 

'  Yes.     Thanks  very  much.     You  are  good  to  me.' 

When  Mr,  Ismey  re-entered  the  drawing-room  he  said  to 
his  wife  : 

'That's  a  highly  strung,  odd  boy.' 

But  she  was  lying  down  on  a  sofa,  reading  a  volume  of 
French  poetry,  and  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 


CHAPTER    X 

FELIX  walked  home  that  day  by  Hyde  Park  Corner  and 
Grosvenor  Place.  It  was  growing  dark  and  he  went 
slowly.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  in  London  he  took 
no  notice  of  the  life  in  the  streets.  His  thoughts  were  not  at 
work  on  those  about  him,  but  were  still  in  Green  Street.  They 
had  plenty  to  do  there.  He  was  conscious  that  he  had  been 
spending  his  time  with  three  human  enigmas.  He  did  not  yet 
understand  one  of  them,  not  even  Mr.  Ismey.  His  relation 
with  his  wife  was  not  clear  to  Felix  at  all,  nor  the  reason  of  the 
perpetual  sadness  in  his  eyes.  What  sort  of  man  was  he?  A 
good  man,  Felix  thought ;  kind-hearted  certainly,  chivalrous. 
The  last  adjective  came,  but  perhaps  only  because  of  his  appear- 
ance. There  was  something  distinguished  about  him.  He  was 
so  tall,  and  his  rippling,  iron-grey  hair  was  so  thick.  Felix  fancied 
he  must  have  a  great  deal  of  secret  pride,  of  the  pride  that  is  in 
a  man  like  a  pure,  keen  breeze  in  a  chamber.  There  was  aristo- 
cracy in  his  reserve.  Instinctively  Felix  respected  him.  And 
Mrs.  Ismey  in  her  own  home?  Doubt  and  confusion  assailed 
the  boy.  She  was  charming,  but  her  self-possession  was  almost 
terrible  to  him.  Why  did  she  coolly  take  away  his  career  from 
him?  Now  that  he  could  not  go  into  the  office  of  Ismey  and 
Co.,  he  felt  sure  that  if  he  could  go  into  it  he  would  become 
famous,  a  power  in  the  world.  Vague  but  essential  glories 
floated  about  that  office  like  a  halo.  Depression  seized  him. 
What  was  he  to  do?  Mr.  Ismey's  remark  about  work  making 
men  feel  at  home  in  strange  places  struck  him  as  profoundly  true. 
But  he  was  condemned  to  feel  homeless.  Laziness  in  this  great 
city,  in  which  he  knew  scarcely  any  one,  would  be  horrible.  Sud- 
denly Churston  Waters  appeared  to  him  as  the  cosiest,  happiest, 
safest  place  in  the  world.  There,  if  he  went  out,  he  met  people 
who  had  known  him  all  his  life.  He  was  somebody.  Here  he 
was  a  drifting  atom  .  .  .  Lady  Caroline  Hurst  and  the  little 
black  dog.  The  little  black  dog  was  a  fourth  enigma,  canine. 
Why  was  it  abominable  to  him,  a  lover  of  dogs  ?     He  did  not 

188 


FELIX  139 

know.  But  he  did  know  that  he  would  hate  to  be  obliged 
to  touch  it,  that  to  have  it  on  his  knees  would  give  him  the 
horrors.  He  shuddered  when  he  thought  of  contact  with  it. 
Already  its  mistress  was  a  power  in  his  mind.  And  there  his 
attempt  to  analyse  the  impression  she  had  made  upon  him 
ended.  There  was  strength,  power  in  her.  That  was  all  he 
could  tell  yet.  He  felt  very  lonely  that  evening  and  slept  badly 
when  he  went  to  bed. 

On  the  following  morning  he  got  up  feehng  very  nervous. 
The  awkwardness  of  his  position  quite  overwhelmed  him  now 
that  the  interview  with  Mr.  Ismey  was  so  near.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  could  say  in  excuse  for  his  apparently  inexpli- 
cable conduct.  It  was  his  nature  to  long  to  appear  in  a  favour- 
able light  before  any  one  for  whom  he  had  the  least  liking  or 
respect.  Now  he  was  going  forth  to  earn  the  contempt  of  a  man 
who  had  shown  him  peculiar  kindness.  It  was  not  his  fault,  yet 
he  felt  like  a  criminal. 

He  reached  the  office  in  Norwich  Street,  Strand,  before  twelve 
o'clock,  passed  through  a  large  swing  door,  and  found  himself  in 
a  huge,  high  room,  across  which,  from  wall  to  wall,  ran  a  broad 
counter  with  a  flap  of  wood  which  could  be  lifted  at  will 
to  permit  people  to  pass.  Behind  this  counter  were  several 
tables  at  which  men  sat  preoccupied  with  various  tasks  entirely 
mysterious  to  Felix.  The  walls  of  the  room  were  lined  with 
bookshelves  to  the  ceiling.  Each  of  these  shelves  contained  a 
quantity  of  copies  of  one  book,  whose  name  was  printed  on  a 
big,  white  card  nailed  overhead.  Under  the  name  of  the  book 
appeared  the  name  of  the  author.  When  Felix  came  up  to  the 
counter,  with  some  hesitatir-n,  a  young  man  with  fair  hair  and 
pince-nez  got  up  from  the  nearest  table  and  approached  him. 

'  Can  I  see  Mr.  Ismey  ?  '  Felix  asked. 

'  If  you  will  give  me  your  card  I  will  find  out,'  replied  the 
young  man  formally. 

Felix  gave  his  card  ;  the  young  man  glanced  at  it,  went  to  a 
tube  that  hung  against  the  wall,  took  it  off  its  hook,  blew 
through  it  and  listened.  After  a  second  he  put  his  lips  to  it, 
said  something  which  Felix  could  not  hear,  and  listened  again. 
Then  he  put  the  tube  back  on  its  hook,  turned  round  and  said 
to  Felix,  'Will  you  please  come  this  way?'  at  the  same  time 
lifting  up  the  wooden  flap  of  the  counter. 

Felix  follo.ved  him  among  the  tables,  whose  owners  did  not 
glance  up,  through  a  doorway  and  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  at  the 
top  of  which  were  three  more  doors.  One  of  these  was  open, 
and  on  it  was  fastened  a  largj  card  bearng  the  name  :  '  Mr.  King 


140  FELIX 

Marshall.'  When  he  saw  it  Felix  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  of 
excitement,  for  King  Marshall  was  one  of  the  most  notorious 
and  brilliant  novelists  of  the  day.  He  was  also  reader  to  Ismey 
and  Co.,  but  this  Felix  did  not  know.  The  clerk  showed  Felix 
into  the  sanctum  of  Mr.  King  Marshall,  which  was  empty,  said, 
'  Will  you  kindly  sit  down  here  for  a  few  minutes  ?  '  and  went  out, 
shutting  the  door. 

Felix  looked  round  with  a  sense  of  awe.  The  room  was  very 
plainly  furnished,  and  his  attention  was  most  attracted  by  an 
immense  writing-table  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  it,  covered 
with  typewritten  manuscript.  On  a  blotting-pad  lay  a  large 
sheet  of  foolscap  nearly  filled  with  writing  in  a  tiny,  neat  hand. 
As  he  was  glancing  away  from  this  for  fear  of  seeing  words 
not  meant  for  his  eyes,  the  door  opened  and  a  man  walked 
quickly  in. 

He  was  small  and  slim,  with  a  large  forehead,  thin  hair^  once 
blond,  but  now  turning  grey,  and  very  large,  fiery,  brown  eyes, 
which  looked  both  fierce  and  melancholy.  Not  only  his  face 
but  his  whole  body  expressed  nervousness  and  a  sort  of  sad 
energy — impetuosity  shadowed  with  tears.  When  he  saw  Felix 
he  looked  surprised.  Felix  felt  all  the  uneasiness  of  a  sensitive 
intruder. 

'  I  came  to  see  Mr.  Ismey,'  he  said,  springing  up  from  the 
chair  on  which  he  had  been  sitting.     '  They  showed  me  in  here.' 

'Oh,  sit  down,  sit  down,'  said  the  man  in  a  weak  voice. 

He  went  up  to  the  writing-table,  sat  down  on  the  revolving 
chair  which  stood  before  it,  and  began  to  look  over  the  type- 
written manuscript.  But  perhaps  the  presence  of  a  stranger 
altered  his  purpose,  for,  after  two  or  three  minutes,  he  laid  it 
down  and  turned  his  fiery  eyes  on  Felix.  He  looked  at  him  for 
a  long  time — at  least  it  seemed  to  him  a  long  time — and  at 
last  said  : 

'  Are  you  joining  the  band  of  writers  already  ?  ' 

'No — at  least  I  haven't  begun  to  write  yet,' answered  Felix, 
who  suddenly  felt  as  if  he  had  always  meant  to  be  a  writer,  and 
would  rather  die  than  be  anything  else. 

'  But  you  intend  to,  I  suppose  ?  '  said  the  man,  still  looking  at 
him  with  a  sort  of  vague  melancholy  under  which  there  was 
latent  fire. 

'  I  should  like  to.  I  want  to.  But  I  don't  know  whether — 
I  mean  I  dare  say  I  have  no  talent,'  Felix  answered. 

A  conviction  that  this  man  must  be  King  Marshall  thrilled 
him  with  excitement  and  enthusiasm.  The  man  sighed, 
whether  wearily  or  impatiently  Felix  could  not  tell. 


FELIX  141 

'Do  you  know  how  to  find  out  whether  you  have  talent  or 
not?'  he  said  after  a  minute. 

'  By  trying  to  write  and ' 

'No,  no.' 

'  How  ? '  exclaimed  Felix. 

His  self-consciousness  and  dread  of  being  in  the  way  suddenly 
left  him. 

'  Try  to  see  what  is,  and  to  think  about  it  naturally.' 

'  Is  that  difficult,'  Felix  ventured  to  ask. 

*  Very,  very  difficult.  To  many  people,  I  suppose,  it  is  quite 
impossible.  They  either  cannot  see,  or  they  see  double,  or 
they  see  men  as  trees  walking.  And  what  they  see  inaccurately 
they  think  about  with  affectation.  Their  minds  are  as  artificial 
as  many  of  the  poor  women  whom  one  meets  here  in  London, 
trying  to  give  mother  Nature  the  cold  shoulder.  They  are 
as  afraid  to  be  natural,  even  by  themselves,  as  to  go  naked  in 
Regent  Street.  If  you  can  convince  yourself  and  the  un- 
afi"ected  that  you  can  see  what  is  as  it  is,  and  think  about  it 
naturally,  you  have  talent.  And  then,  if  you  come  to  write,  try 
at  first  to  do  one  thing  only,  try  to  tell  the  truth.  When  you 
are  sure  that  you  are  able  to  tell  the  truth,  try  to  tell  it  beauti- 
fully—but not  till  you  are  sure.' 

The  door  opened,  the  clerk  reappeared. 

'  Mr.  Ismey  will  see  you  if  you  will  come  this  way/  he  said, 
looking  towards  Felix. 

The  man  at  the  writing-table  nodded  and  picked  up  a  sheet 
of  manuscript.     Felix,  with  a  sinking  heart,  followed  the  clerk. 

'Was  that  Mr.  King  Marshall?  '  he  asked  in  the  passage. 

'  Yes,'  said  the  clerk.     '  I  didn't  remember  he  was  here  to-day.' 

He  showed  Felix  into  a  large  light  room  with  brown  paper 
covered  walls,  on  which  were  hung  quantities  of  caricatures  and 
portraits  of  men  of  the  day.  In  this  room  Mr.  Ismey  was 
standing. 

'Capital!'  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  Felix.  *You  are  a 
punctual  man.     That 's  right.' 

'  I  'm  afraid  I  was  rather  too  early,'  said  Felix. 

Now  he  was  actually  with  Mr.  Ismey  he  felt  like  one  about  to 
be  executed,  and  could  not  look  him  in  the  face. 

'  Sit  down,'  said  Mr.  Ismey,  sitting  down  himself  near  the 
window,  'and  we'll  get  to  business  at  once.  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  to-day.     Now ' 

But  Felix,  with  a  sort  of  desperate  courage,  interrupted  him. 

'  Please  I  want  to  say  something,'  he  began,  speaking  with 
awkward  haste. 


142  FELIX 

Mr.  Ismey  looked  rather  surprised. 

'  Well,  what  is  it? '  he  asked,  crossing  one  leg  over  the  other, 
and  resting  his  hands,  palm  downwards,  on  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

'Since — since  I've  been  in  London  I  've  been  thinking  things 
over,'  Felix  said,  looking  away  from  Mr.  Ismey.  '  And  I — I  've 
decided  to — to  do  nothing  definite  for  just  a  few  months.  You 
see' —  he  stole  a  glance  at  Mr.  Ismey,  and  thought  he  was 
looking  rather  stern — 'it's  all  quite  new  to  me,  and  I  feel  I 
don't  ri^ally  know  at  all  yet  what  I  wish  to  be  and  do.  I  hope 
you  understand.     I  don't  put  it  well,  I  know.' 

'  Oh,  then  you  have  changed  your  mind  ?  You  don't  want 
to  come  to  us  ? ' 

Mr.  Ismey's  voice  was  quite  kind,  but  somehow  it  made 
Felix  feel  most  awfully  ashamed  of  himself. 

'  It  isn't  that,'  he  said.  '  I  quite  understand — I  mean  I  know 
what  a  great  chance  it  is  to  be  allowed  to  come  here.  I  can't 
say  how  grateful  I  am  to  you  for  all  your  kindness.' 

'  Never  mind  that.     But  you  have  decided  not  to  come?' 

The  absurdity  of  vehement  expressions  of  gratitude,  com- 
bined with  a  definite  refusal  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity 
for  which  he  was  offering  up  thanks,  struck  Felix  forcibly. 

•  I  think  I  'd  rather  wait  and  just  make  up  my  mind  what  I  'm 
fitted  for,'  he  answered,  trying  to  assume  a  calm  and  common- 
sense  tone.  '  You  see  I  'm  very  young,  and  it 's  awfully  difficult 
to  know  in  a  moment  what  one  really  wants  to  make  of  one's  life.' 

*Yes,  it  is  difficult,'  said  Mr.  Ismey,  still  kindly.  'Well,  I 
won't  keep  you.  Let  us  see  something  of  you  in  town.  Can 
you  come  and  dine  one  night  ?  ' 

'Oh,  thank  you  very  much.     I  should  like  to  immensely.' 

Mr.  Ismey  thought  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said  : 

'Come  on  Monday  night,  will  you?' 

*  Oh,  I  'm  most  fearfully  sorry,'  exclaimed  Felix,  feeling  that 
he  was  being  forced  by  cruel  circumstance  to  seem  anxious  to 
avoid  all  Mr.  Ismey's  extreme  kindness. 

'  Why  ?     What 's  the  matter  ? ' 

'That  night,  only  that  one  night,  I  am  engaged.  I  have 
promised  to  dine  with  Lady  Caroline  Hurst.' 

'  Oh,'  Mr.  Ismey  said. 

This  time  his  voice  was  unmistakably  grim,  and  when  Felix 
looked  at  him  his  face  was  grim  too.  He  returned  Felix's 
glance,  opened  his  lips,  and  was  certainly  on  the  point  of  saying 
something  abrupt  and  very  decisive.  Felix  knew  that  by  his 
whole  expression,  which  had  suddenly  coarsened,  and  by  the 
curious  bitterness  of  his  eyes. 


FELIX  143 


•With  Lady  Caroline  Hurst,'  he  said.     'So  you- 


He  had  spoken  with  harsh  roughness,  but  suddenly  he  stopped 
speaking,  leaving  his  sentence  unfinished. 

'  We  must  find  another  night,'  he  said,  after  a  pause,  coldly. 
*  Well,  good-bye.' 

*  Good-bye,'  said  Felix. 

Mr.  Ismey  walked  with  him  to  the  door  and  opened  it;  just 
as  Felix  was  going  out  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

'  Don't  stay  long  in  London  without  finding  some  work  to  do,' 
he  said.     'And  be  very ' 

He  hesitated.  His  expression  was  so  strange  that  it  startled 
Felix.  There  was  something  like  agony  in  his  face.  His  eyes 
were  very  wide  open  and  dilated. 

'  Don't  be  deceived  in  people  if  you  can  help  it,'  he  said  at 
length. 

He  lowered  his  voice  and  almost  muttered  : 

'But  you  will,  of  course  you  will.' 

He  took  his  hand  from  Felix's  shoulder,  and  Felix  went  out, 
wondering. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THAT  evening  Felix  wrote  to  his  mother.  He  felt  both 
excited  and  depressed.  His  morning  had  been  so  dis- 
agreeable that  his  whole  day  lay  in  shadow.  He  had  not 
known  what  to  say  to  Mr.  Ismey.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  write  to  his  mother.  At  one  moment  he  thought  of  packing 
his  bag  and  catching  the  afternoon  train  to  Frankton  Wells. 
The  idea  of  the  quiet,  low-roofed  drawing-room  was  pleasant  in 
his  mind.  But  he  dismissed  it.  He  dreaded  his  mother's 
questions,  her  astonishment.  Both  would  be  so  natural  and 
so  intolerable.  He  would,  perhaps,  be  driven  to  lies.  That 
thought  sickened  him.  So  he  wrote,  and,  being  in  this  unquiet 
and  desolate  mood,  wrote  abruptly  to  say  that  he  had  decided 
not  to  enter  the  office  of  Ismey  and  Co.  at  present,  but  to 
'look  about'  him — the  vague  phrase  served  as  well  as  another 
— before  settling  down  to  any  business  or  profession.  He 
added  that  he  had  explained  matters  to  Mr.  Ismey  that 
morning.  'Mr.  Ismey,'  he  wrote,  'quite  understands  the 
position.  After  all,  I  am  awfully  young,  and  it's  safer  to  look 
round  before  getting  involved  in  anything  that  I  mightn't  like, 
or  be  suited  to,  in  the  end.' 

He  knew  the  letter  was  disingenuous,  but  that  he  could  not 
help.  When  it  had  gone  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  took 
himself  to  task  for  his  depression  and  confusion  of  mind.  He 
felt  that  both  were  unworthy  of  him.  When  he  sat  in  the 
ruined  chapel  of  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  when  he  talked  with 
the  tailor  in  the  forest,  he  had  felt  that  he  had  the  temperament 
of  a  conqueror  held  in  leash  by  circumstance.  London  was  to 
be  his  prey,  not  he  London's.  Now  was  he  to  sink  down  under 
the  first  blow,  to  be  discouraged  by  the  first  occurrence  which 
he  could  not  immediately  understand?  He  was  resolved  to 
apply  his  knowledge  persistently,  even  coldly,  in  the  conduct 
of  his  life  and  in  his  relations  with  the  men  and  women  of  this 
new  world.  And  he  thought  of  King  Marshall's  words,  which 
were  surely  a  sort  of  summing-up  in  little  of  the  great  life-task 
of  the  dead  man  who  had  first  waked  him  to  the  glory  of  the 

14A 


FELIX  145 

sunrise  and  to  the  blackness  of  nights  without  a  star.  It  was  a 
grand  and  sufificient  duty  to  learn  to  see,  and  to  think  rightly 
about  things  seen.  A  long  lifetime  was  too  short  for  clear 
vision  of  even  a  few  of  the  teeming  facts  of  existence.  He 
resolved  to  be  impassioned  in  his  search  for  truths,  to  be 
fearless  of  them  when  they  were  terrible,  to  be  tender  to  them 
when  they  were  weak,  to  be  their  bold  cavalier  when  they  were 
joyous.  That  was  the  part  of  a  man  in  the  world.  That  should 
be  his  part.  Already  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  mass  of  facts 
which  he  was  as  yet  unable  to  comprehend.  He  did  not  know, 
he  could  not  divine  why  Mrs.  Ismey  had  required  of  him  the 
act  of  abnegation  which  he  had  accomplished.  He  resolved 
that  he  would  know  her  secret  reason.  Surely  his  obedience 
armed  him  with  a  right  to  this  knowledge.  She  might  not 
recognise  it.  That  was  to  be  proved.  He  longed  to  bridge  the 
gulf  of  time  which  lay  between  him  and  Monday. 

When  Monday  came  at  last  it  brought  a  long  letter  from  his 
mother.  She  was  evidently  in  much  anxiety  at  his  unaccount- 
able volte-face,  and  could  only  look  forward  with  alarm  to  the 
prospect  of  his  idleness  in  London.  Indeed,  she  expressed 
herself  with  quite  unusual  decision,  and  begged  Felix  to  go  to 
Mr.  Ismey,  and  say  that  he  had  reconsidered  the  matter,  and 
wished  to  be  admitted  to  the  office.  Separated  from  her  son, 
and  freed  to  some  extent  by  her  complete  loneliness  from  the 
influences  which  her  affections  rendered  so  potent,  Mrs.  Wilding 
was  now  playing  a  father's  part  with  some  real  conviction.  She 
saw  clearly  that  idleness  in  London  must  be  bad  for  a  boy  of 
Felix's  age,  and  seeing  this  she  suddenly,  urged  by  fear  and  a 
loving  sense  of  duty,  woke  up  into  a  sort  of  gentle  manliness. 
Felix  was  quite  amazed  by  the  definiteness  of  the  letter.  It 
rendered  his  position  still  more  awkward.  Mrs.  Wilding  made 
one  mistake.  She  put  a  postscript,  which  ran  as  follows ; 
'Stephen  came  over  just  after  I  got  your  letter.  He  is  much 
surprised  that  you  should  have  refused  Mr.  Ismey,  after  being 
so  anxious  to  go  to  him.  He  cannot  understand  it  any  more 
than  I  can.' 

This  mention  of  Stephen  threw  Felix  into  a  condition  of 
acute  irritation.  As  he  dressed  to  go  to  Lady  Caroline's  dinner 
he  felt  angry,  even  with  Mrs.  Ismey.  This  sensation  was  only 
fleeting,  but  it  left  behind  it  a  definite  resolve  to  find  out  why 
the  sacrifice  he  had  made  had  been  required  of  him. 

He  reached  Great  Cumberland  Place  punctually,  and  was 
shown  by  a  man-servant  into  a  small  room  at  the  b:.ck  of  the 
house  on  the  ground  floor.  While  he  waited  there  for  Lady 
K 


146  FELIX 

Caroline  he  examined  this  room  shrewdly,  for  of  course  he 
knew  from  Balzac  that  it  is  possible  to  learn  much  about  the 
creature  from  the  creature's  shell.  ,  And,  first,  he  found  himself 
wondering  why  Lady  Caroline  chose  to  live  in  such  a  big  house 
alone.  He  did  not  know  that  it  had  been  left  to  her  by  her 
father,  and  that  she  only  went  on  living  where  she  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  live.  So  he  judged  that  she  was  fond  of 
space,  and  was  fearless.  Timid  women  are  afraid  of  empty 
rooms  and  gaping  corridors  at  night. 

He  gathered  further  that  Lady  Caroline  was  an  untidy  woman. 
The  room  was  in  considerable  disorder.  Upon  an  open  piano- 
forte a  quantity  of  loose  music  was  scattered.  On  two  of  the 
chairs  books  and  magazines  were  lying.  A  pair  of  embroidered 
Turkish  slippers  stood  near  the  fireplace,  one  with  its  toe,  the 
other  with  its  heel  presented  towards  the  flames.  A  man's 
smoking-cap — at  least  Felix  thought  it  must  be  a  man's  smoking- 
cap — lay  on  a  table  beside  an  open  silver  box  half  full  of 
cigarettes.  On  one  side  of  the  fire  there  was  a  gigantic  low 
couch  littered  with  cushions,  and  dented  in  the  middle,  as  if  it 
were  lain  upon  incessantly.  There  were  more  books  on  a  wicker 
table  close  to  it.  Felix  glanced  at  two  or  three  of  them.  One 
was  De  Quincey's  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater.  Another  was 
a  medical  book.  A  third  was  a  large  volume  on  Nightmare  and 
Its  Causes,  by  a  Frenchman  of  whom  Felix  had  never  heard. 
There  were  heavy  red  curtains  over  the  windows  and  the  (me 
door.  Red  silk  covered  the  walls.  The  light  in  the  room  was 
very  faint,  coming  only  from  the  fire  and  from  one  small  lamp 
with'  a  dark-red  shade.  The  furniture  looked  disarranged,  as  if 
it  were  often  pushed  about,  as  if  no  chair,  no  footstool,  no  small 
table  had  any  fixed  abiding-place.  Felix  gained  an  impression 
that  the  owner  and  occupier  of  this  room  was  eccentric,  change- 
able, now  lazy,  now  energetic.  Just  as  he  was  thinking  this 
Lady  Caroline  came  in. 

She  looked  sleepy  and  old,  much  older  than  she  had  looked 
at  Mrs.  Ismey's  four  days  ago,  and  wore  the  same  black  gown 
she  had  worn  then,  with  the  same  pearl  earrings  in  her  ears. 
She  had  on  a  big  black-and-pink  hat,  and  carried  in  one  hand 
a  veil  and  two  large  pins  set  with  pearls. 

'  Well,  here  you  are  ! '  she  said,  in  her  usual  informal  manner. 
'Valeria  hasn't  turned  up  yet.     But  she's  always  late.' 

She  shook  Felix  listlessly  by  the  hand,  went  over  to  the 
mantelpiece,  where  there  was  a  narrow,  long  mirror,  put  the 
veil  and  pins  down,  and  stared  at  herself  moodily  in  the  glass. 
Then  she  yawned  drearily  and  turned  round. 


FELIX  147 

'I've  been  in  bed  all  the  afternoon,'  she  said.     'Just  got  up.' 

*0h,  I  hope  you're  not  ill,'  said  Felix  sympathetically. 

'111!     Why  should  I  be  ill?' 

Her  voice  sounded  irritable. 

'  I  only  thought  as  you  said  you  'd  been  in  bed.' 

'Well,  I  was  up  all  night.  One  must  get  some  sleep.  I 
shall  be  all  right  after  dinner.  There's  too  much  light  in  this 
room,' 

She  went  to  the  lamp  and  turned  it  down,  then  came  back  to 
the  fire. 

'  My  dying  remark — if  I  'm  so  garrulous  as  to  make  one — will 
be  the  reverse  of  Goethe's,'  she  said. 

As  she  spoke  she  yawned  again,  this  time  brutally,  as  if  she 
were  grossly  enjoying  a  pleasure.  Felix  had  never  been  with 
any  one,  man  or  woman,  who  seemed  so  entirely  careless  of  the 
presence  of  others.  Even  when  Lady  Caroline  spoke  to  him  he 
felt  as  if  she  were  talking  as  people  talk  to  themselves  when 
they  are  walking  alone  in  the  dark.  Yet  he  was  conscious  of 
being  oddly  at  home  with  her,  and  she  interested  him  intensely. 
She  seemed  to  him  to  be  really  what  is  often  called  '  a  character,' 
not  z.poseuse,  but  a  natural  original. 

'  I  shan't  give  Valeria  much  rope,'  she  said,  after  a  pause 
which  Felix  did  not  try  to  fill  up.  '  Another  five  minutes  and 
then — oh,  here  she  is.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  came  in,  also  wearing  a  hat  and  looking,  Felix 
thought,  comparing  her  with  Lady  Caroline,  young  and  fresh 
and  charming.  She  made  no  apology  for  being  late,  and  Lady 
Caroline  said  nothing  about  it.  Indeed,  she  scarcely  said 
anything  at  all.  When  Felix  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Ismey  he 
read  gratitude  in  her  eyes,  and  understood  that  she  was  thanking 
him  for  the  sacrifice  he  had  made.  Her  glance  made  him  glow. 
The  ability  to  do  something  for  a  woman  of  the  world  gave  him 
the  sudden  satisfactory  sensation  of  being  a  man  of  the  w  orld. 

Dinner  was  annonnced,  and  as  they  walked  through  the  hall, 
in  which  a  large  Spanish  dish  of  charcoal  was  burning,  Lady 
Caroline  said  to  Mrs.  Ismey  : 

'Was  Francis  at  all  tiresome  about  your  coming?' 

'No.  I  can't  say  he  often  is  tiresome.  Pride  is  one  of  his 
virtues.  I  can  conceive  his  murdering  me,  but  not  scolding 
me.' 

'A  lesson  for  you,' said  Lady  Caroline  to  Felix,  as  they  sat 
down  at  the  dinner-table.  'If  you  want  to  win  a  wife's  respect 
murder  her,  if  you  like,  but  don't  scold  her.' 

'Scolding,   certainly,   is   awfully   undignified,'   he   answered, 


148  FELIX 

thinking,  with  some  shame,  how  often  he  had  indulged  in 
something  very  hke  it  at  home. 

'  Most  men  have  no  idea  of  human  dignity,'  returned  Lady 
Carohne.  '  That  is  to  say  if  they  are  thoroughly  civilised. 
Civilisation  tends  to  destroy  dignity.  The  old  territorial 
magnate  was  a  savage  compared  to  the  modern  London  man, 
but  he  was  ten  times  more  dignified.     It  doesn't  much  matter.' 

As  Felix  listened  to  her  drowsy  and  musical  voice  he 
wondered  whether  anything  mattered  in  her  opinion.  There 
was  a  certain  amount  of  light  shed  over  the  round  dining-table 
by  a  lamp  which  hung  from  the  carved  wooden  ceiling,  and  he 
could  see  her  face  more  clearly  than  in  the  other  room.  Again 
he  noticed  the  peculiarity  of  her  complexion.  To-night  the 
faint  and  disagreeable  pinkness  spread  up  to  her  eyes.  Even 
the  many  little  wrinkles  round  them  were  tinged  with  it.  The 
skin  under  them  hung  loosely  in  bags.  He  thought  she  looked 
unwell,  but  as  if  she  did  not  care  whether  she  were  well  or  ill. 
As  he  glanced  away  from  her  he  saw  Mrs.  Ismey's  intelligent 
eyes  fixed  upon  him.  He  devoted  himself  to  his  soup,  wonder- 
ing whether  as  usual  she  had  read  his  thought.  Neither  Lady 
Caroline  nor  Mrs.  Ismey  took  soup,  and  as  the  dinner  went  on 
Felix  often  found  himself  eating  alone.  Both  his  companions 
drank  champagne,  but  they  seemed  to  have  no  appetites. 
Between  the  courses  Lady  Caroline  smoked  cigarettes,  slowly, 
as  a  man  smokes,  not  excitedly,  like  so  many  women.  She 
began  to  look  slightly  less  sleepy.  Mrs.  Ismey,  from  the  first, 
was  in  a  lively  mood.  Felix  found  her  occasionally  sub-acid 
gaiety,  the  airy,  irresponsible,  yet  quite  unfoolish  charm  of  her 
manner,  brought  into  high  relief  by  the  proximity  of  Lady 
Caroline,  whose  curious,  puffy  heaviness  was  an  admirable  foil 
to  it.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  two  human  beings  more 
essentially  different  than  these  two  women.  To-night  Lady 
Caroline  made  him  think  of  an  animal  which  had  been  hiber- 
nating in  some  dark  hole  during  a  long  winter,  and  which  had 
just  emerged,  bhnking,  into  a  forgotten  wor'.d.  Mrs.  I?mey  was 
like  a  satirical  nymph  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion.  Yet  there 
were  moments  in  which  he  felt  that  they  were  alike.  In  what 
way  he  could  not  tell.  Once,  when  they  were  both  looking 
serious,  he  told  himself  that  there  was  some  furtive  similarity  in 
their  faces.  Again,  he  fancied  that  occasionally  there  was  a 
trick  of  manner  which  linked  them  in  1  is  thought,  an  odd, 
sudden  indifference,  an  inconsequence — he  did  not  know. 
Perhaps  all  women,  simply  from  the  fact  of  sex,  were  as  much 
alike  at  moments  as  these  seemed  to  be.     Or  did  they  even 


FELIX  149 

seem?  He  was  uncertain.  He  wondered  wlicther  they  were 
very  fond  of  each  other.  He  supposed  they  must  be.  They 
were  evidently  very  intimate,  and  had  been  for  a  long  time, 
before  Mrs.  Ismey's  marriage.  To  FeHx  they  seemed  on 
off-hand,  casual  terms.  And  yet,  as  there  were  moments  in 
which  he  fancied  a  similarity  of  face  or  manner  between  them, 
so  there  were  moments  in  which  he  seemed  to  divine  some 
strong  link  that  bound  their  diverse  natures  together,  secretly 
but  firmly,  a  link  which  they  were  so  keenly  aware  of  that  they 
had  no  need  to  use  in  ordinary  life  the  civilities,  the  tendernesses 
which  are  as  the  small  change  of  the  affections. 

When  Mrs.  Ismey  was  with  Lady  Caroline  she  seemed  to 
Felix  slightly  more  of  a  nonentity  than  when  she  was  away  from 
her,  and  yet  more  physically  charming.  Lady  Caroline  was, 
he  felt  sure,  the  leading  spirit  of  the  two  spirits.  And  he  thought 
again  of  the  canon  played  upon  the  two  pianos. 

*  You  are  thinking  a  great  deal  about  us  to-night,  Mr.  Wilding,* 
Mrs.  Ismey  said  towards  the  end  of  the  dinner. 

She  spoke  gaily,  yet  with  a  faint  shadow  of  suspicion  too. 

'If  I  am,  isn't  it  natural  ?' asked  Felix,  who  already  felt  far 
less  shy  than  when  he  first  arrived  in  London. 

'  Yes ;  it  is  natural  to  think  about  us — but  how  ? '  she 
replied. 

A  look  that  was  half  mischievous,  half  inquisitive,  had  come 
into  her  face  and  made  it  almost  childish. 

'What  does  it  matter  how  he  thinks  about  us,'  said  Lady 
Caroline,  '  or  how  we  think  about  him  ?  I  'm  sure  he  doesn't 
care.' 

'  I  am  sure  he  does,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 

'  Nonsense  !  Do  you  care  ?  '  Lady  Caroline  asked  Felix, 
fixing  her  light  eyes,  which  were  still  rather  dull  with  the 
shadow  of  sleep,  on  him. 

'  Yes,  I  think  I  do,'  he  answered,  almost  ingenuously.  *  I 
should  like  you  to  like  me.' 

'If  I  didn't  like  you,  you  wouldn't  be  sitting  at  this  table,' 
said  Lady  Caroline  brusquely.  'Think  what  you  please  about 
me.     People's  thoughts  about  me  don't  affect  me  at  all.' 

'If  you  are  a  monster  you  shouldn't  show  it,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey 
quickly. 

An  expression  that  was  both  angry  and  helpless  had  suddenly 
come  into  her  face. 

'You  ought  to  care  what  some  people  think,' she  repeated 
insistently. 

Lady  Caroline  turned  and  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 


150  FELIX 

'  Well,  I  don't,'  she  said.     *  I  don't  care  what  any  one  thinks.* 

Her  musical  voice  had  become  quite  harsh.  Felix  felt  as  if 
he  were  witnessing  an  affray.  He  did  not  understand  the  cause 
of  it  at  all,  but  he  heard  the  clash  of  weapons,  and  saw  gleams  of 
anger  and  of  determination  in  the  eyes  of  the  combatants. 

Then  were  they  enemies  these  two,  not  friends  ? 

'Come,'  said  Lady  Caroline,  after  a  moment  of  silence, 
during  which  Mrs.  Ismey  looked  down  at  her  plate  with  her  lips 
pressed  tightly  together.  '  If  we  are  going  to  hear  this  double- 
voiced  nightingale  we  ought  to  start.  I  ordered  the  brougham 
at  a  quarter  to  ten.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  got  up  quickly,  as  if  movement  were  a  relief 
to  her. 

'  They  '11  bring  you  your  coffee  here,'  Lady  Caroline  said  to 
Felix.     'Join  us  in  five  minutes,  will  you  ? ' 

She  treated  him  very  much  as  a  boy,  and  he  noticed  it,  but 
did  not  mind.  He  felt  sure  she  wished  to  be  alone  for  a 
moment  with  Mrs.  Ismey. 

In  the  brougham  he  sat  opposite  to  them  on  a  little  seat 
which  could  be  let  down  flat  against  the  front  of  the  carriage,  or 
pushed  up  and  made  firm  on  a  pivot.  In  this  seat,  being  tall, 
he  found  that  he  was  uncomfortable  unless  he  leaned  forward. 
The  night  was  dark  and  rather  foggy,  but  the  many  street  lamps 
and  the  passing  carriage  lamps  cast  gleams  of  light  upon  the  two 
women  as  they  sat  side  by  side  opposite  to  him.  And  he  saw 
continually  the  lights,  diminished,  dancing  in  their  eyes.  They 
were  too  indolent  or  too  sensible  to  attempt  conversation,  and 
Felix  was  glad  of  that.  He  looked  at  their  eyes  furtively,  and 
thought  what  wonderful  books  the  eyes  of  women  are.  Presently 
he  was  aware  of  a  perfume  in  the  carriage.  It  was  faint  and 
sweet.  It  made  him  suddenly  feel  sad,  and  vaguely  amorous. 
Also  it  seemed  to  deepen  his  sense  of  the  mystery  there  is  in 
women.  He  could  not  tell  whether  the  perfume  was  carried  by 
Lady  Caroline  or  Mrs.  Ismey,  but  he  thought  it  was  probably 
Mrs.  Ismey's.  It  was  not  quite  like  the  perfume  of  any  flower. 
He  imagined  it  a  scent  of  the  East.  It  was  languid  and  very  deli- 
cate. He  shut  his  eyes  to  draw  it  more  acutely  into  his  nostrils, 
and  the  sadness,  and  the  pleasure  of  being  sad,  deepened  in  him 
until  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  He  wondered  why.  He  wondered 
what  it  all  meant.  And  then  again  1  e  looked  at  the  eyes  of  the 
two  women,  and  he  thought  that  Lady  Ciroline's  were  fierce  and 
dull,  and  that  Mrs.  Ismey's  were  brilliant  like  yellow  precious 
stones.  And  he  begin  to  dream  ab  ut  them  and  their  eyes,  and 
to  we.ive  romances  in  which  they  figured  with  him.     And  these 


FELIX  151 

romances  were  wild  and  sad,  and  quite  impossible,  as  wild  and 
sad  and  impossible  as  the  London  streets  would  be  if  they,  and 
their  figures,  and  the  incidents  which  take  place  in  them,  were 
imagined  instead  of  actually  existing.  Eut  a  carriage  can  roll 
through  them,  and  so  they  are  prosaic — to  some  people.  Felix 
sighed  when  the  lamps  of  the  Standard  Theatre  glittered  on  his 
face. 

When  they  were  inside  and  had  reached  their  box  they  found 
that  the  house  was  cram.med  with  a  lower  middle-class  audience. 
Girls  with  black  cloth  jackets,  and  hats  covered  with  cheap,  un- 
natural flowers  and  bright-coloured  ribands,  sat  with  glasses  of 
beer  on  little  stands  before  them,  and  giggled  and  talked  with 
young  men  who  wore  caps  and  smoked  cigars,  or  with  soldiers 
in  uniform.  Elderly  women  in  bonnets  were  there  with  solemn 
husbands  in  square-toed,  creaking  boots.  There  were  many 
boys  of  from  fourteen  to  twenty  years  old,  who  had  made  up 
parties  to  have  a  night  out.  They  were  in  high  spirits,  sang 
the  choruses  of  the  songs  with  vigour,  and  made  loud  remarks, 
as  befitted  connoisseurs  of  feminine  beauty,  when  a  lady  came 
on  to  the  stage  dressed  in  a  Duchess  of  Devonshire  hat,  a  golden 
wig,  a  parure  of  false  diamonds,  and  a  set  of  pink-and-silver 
tights.  The  lady  smirked  at  them  with  an  air  of  mechanical 
naughtiness,  wagged  her  legs  and  sang  about  champagne,  which 
she  described  as  a  wicked  beverage  that  was  very  attractive 
to  her  Satanic  nature.  She  was  an  immense  success,  throwing 
her  hearers  into  ecstasies,  in  which  they  felt  as  if  they  too  had 
shared  in  all  the  sinful  joys  of  Moet  et  Cha?idon. 

Lady  Caroline  looking,  Felix  thought,  uncommonly  like  a 
tired  image,  leaned  her  arm  on  the  Itdge  of  the  box,  listened  to 
the  song  with  apparent  attention,  and  when  it  was  over  said  : 

'This  sort  of  thing  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  steeped  in 
wickedness.  What  innocents  the  working  classes  are.  They 
evidently  think  it  a  delicious  crime  to  drink  a  glass  of  champagne. 
Just  look  at  those  boys,  wriggling  with  criminal  apprcr  iation.' 

The  next  turn  was  a  boxing  competition.  A  large,  thin 
youth  with  a  melancholy,  pale  face,  and  a  very  fat  dwarf,  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  preposterously  developed  biceps,  were  the  com- 
batants. The  dwarf  had  the  best  of  it.  His  agility  was  extra- 
ordinary, and  made  the  audience  rock  with  laughter.  He  bobbed 
under  the  melancholy  youth's  guard  and  played  a  perfect 
rhapsody  upon  his  pallid  features.  He  hit  up  and  caught  him 
under  the  chin,  sideways,  and  nearly  l)roke  his  jaw.  Every  one 
was  sincerely  pleased.  Finally  he  made  a  running  leap  and 
knocked  the  pale  youth  out.     The  house  rang  with  cheers. 


152  FELIX 

Mrs.  Ismey  looked  bored.  She  was  sitting  to  the  left  of  Felix, 
who  was  between  her  and  Lady  Caroline,  and  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair  and  scarcely  glanced  at  the  stage.  Once  or  twice 
he  turned  towards  her,  wlien  he  was  pleased  and  amused,  and 
met  eyes  which  made  him  feel  very  young.     Once  he  said: 

'  You  think  I  'm  an  idiot  to  laugh.     I  know  you  do.' 

*  No.  I  am  wishing  I  could,'  she  replied.  '  If  you  couldn't 
laugh,  do  you  know  that  you  would  be  only  half  as  attractive  as 
you  are  ?  ' 

He  felt  self-conscious  and  pleased.  Did  she  think  him 
attractive,  then?  In  what  way?  He  longed  to  ask  her,  for  he 
knew  nothing  about  his  attractiveness  :  in  what  it  consisted,  how 
it  acted,  and  on  what  sorts  of  people.  Any  Sandhurst  boy 
could  have  given  him  a  liberal  education  on  that  subject. 

'  Now  we  shall  hear  your  friend,'  said  Lady  Caroline  to  Felix. 

'  Happy  Hal's '  number  had  gone  up.  Felix  felt  nervous  and 
extraordinarily  anxious  that  Hal  should  sing  well  and  be  success- 
ful. The  orchestra  played  some  bars  of  '  Sally  in  our  Alley,'  and 
then  Hal  walked  quietly  on  to  the  stage  dressed  in  his  work- 
man's clothes,  with  his  cap  on  his  head,  and  the  brown  curl 
sticking  out  from  under  it.  He  looked,  as  he  came  on,  as  if  he 
were  walking  alone  in  a  field  on  a  fine  day.  The  audience 
applauded.  He  stood  facing  it  with  his  hands  in  his  flap 
pockets,  and  began  gravely  to  sing  in  a  clear,  tenor  voice.  It 
was  a  very  agreeable,  natural  voice,  produced  with  ease  and 
apparent  simplicity.  All  the  time  he  was  singing  Hal  looked 
calmly  at  the  crowd,  without  any  shyness  and  without  any  con- 
ceit. He  might  have  been  looking  at  the  grasses  and  buttercups 
in  his  field  while  he  sang  to  please  himself.  And  this  absolutely 
quiet  self-possession,  that  did  not  know  it  was  self-possessed, 
made  his  performance  original  and  charming.  All  the  'Sallies' 
in  the  theatre  liked  him  without  knowing  why.  When  he  came 
to  the  last  verse  of  the  song  he  stuck  out  his  chin,  rounded  his 
little  mouth,  and  sang  it  in  a  loud,  penetrating,  soprano  voice 
ending  with  a  soft,  high  note  that  was  almost  bird-like.  The 
applause  was  tremendous.  He  took  off  his  cap  and  showed  his 
round,  bullet-shaped  head,  covered  with  close-cropped,  brown 
hair.  But  his  gravity  never  changed,  nor  the  odd,  ruminating 
expression  of  his  bright  eyes.  He  stood  there  calmly  while  the 
orchestra  played  a  bit  of  'Tom  Bowling.'  While  he  was  singing 
it  he  saw  Felix,  and  gazed  at  him  steadily,  as  he  had  gazed  at 
him  in  the  street. 

'He  is  an  odd  chap,'  said  Lady  Caroline.  '  We  will  have  him 
home  to  supper.* 


FELIX  153 

Mrs.  Ismey  looked  amused. 

'Those  corduroys  in  Great  Cumberland  Place  ! '  she  said. 

'Why  not?  They'll  make  the  house  look  almost  respectable. 
Go  and  catch  him,  will  you  ?  '  she  added  to  Felix. 

Hal  had  finished  his  'turn  '  and  was  staring  solemnly  at  the 
delighted  audience  cap  in  hand. 

'  Yes,  certainly,'  said  Felix,  rather  amazed  at  this  freak,  and 
wondering  whether  Hal  would  come.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur 
to  Lady  Caroline  that  he  might  refuse. 

Felix  made  his  way  out  into  Victoria  Street,  crossed  it,  and 
stood  on  the  pavement  facing  the  theatre  where  he  had  made 
Hal's  acquaintance.  After  waiting  about  five  minutes  he  saw 
Hal  coming  towards  him,  walking  with  his  feet  rather  wide  apart, 
and  with  his  clay  pipe  stuck  into  his  mouth.  When  he  saw 
Felix  he  touched  his  curl  without  smiling. 

'  Good  evening,  guv'nor,'  he  said. 

'  Good  evening,'  said  Felix.     '  Your  singing  is  simply  capital.' 

'They  swallow  it  all  right,'  responded  Hal.  'There  was  a  lot 
wanting  to  treat  me  to-night,  soldiers  and  young  chaps  out  of 
shops.     But  I  wasn't  taking  any.' 

He  puffed  at  his  pipe,  and  stared  across  at  the  placard  on 
which  the  names  of  the  performers  were  printed. 

'  Name  looks  well,  don't  it,  guv'nor?  '  he  said  after  a  pause, 
pointing  with  his  pipe.     '  Still  on  top.' 

'  Splendid  ! '  said  Felix.  '  I  say,  you  saw  those  two  ladies 
with  me  in  the  box?  ' 

'  Was  there  two?     I  didn't  take  partic'lar  notice.' 

'  Yes.  Well,  one  of  them  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would 
come  to  her  house  to-night  to  supper.' 

Felix  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  felt  exceedingly  diffident 
in  approaching  Hal  with  Lady  Caroline's  invitation  ;  much  more 
diffident  than  he  would  have  been  in  asking  a  man  in  his  own 
class. 

'  Couldn't  do  it,  guv'nor,'  said  Hal  gravely. 

'Couldn't  you?     But — but  why  not?* 

'  The  missus  has  come  up.' 

*  The — your  wife  ? ' 
♦With  the  kids.' 
•Really.' 

'Ah!  She  got  that  anxious  down  to  Dover  about  father 
she  couldn't  slick  it.  So  up  she  came.  Women  is  like  that 
Feared  of  the  dangers  o'  London.' 

He  stared  at  Felix. 

•  Dangers  for  me ! '  he  said.     '  Funny,  ain*t  It? ' 


154  FELIX 

'Yes.     So  you  really  can't  come  to-night?' 

'Couldn't  do  it,  guv'nor.  Why,  she's  waiting  supper  for 
me!' 

Evidently  he  thought  the  last  statement  was  absolutely  con- 
clusive. Felix  felt  that  it  was  quite  useless  to  attempt  any 
pressure.  And,  indeed,  such  was  the  quiet  influence  of  Hal's 
unwavering  decision  of  manner,  that  Felix  unconsciously  fell 
in  with  what  was  obviously  his  view,  that  a  man  whose  wife  was 
'waiting  supper'  for  him  could  not  even  discuss  the  possibility 
of  remaining  away  from  home,  and  breaking  bread  in  the  house 
of  strangers. 

'  I  see,'  said  Felix.     '  Of  course  you  can't  come.* 

' odd  if  I  could,  guv'nor,  wouldn't  it?'  rejoined  Hal, 

his  favourite  adjective. 

'Well,  good  night,'  said  Felix  heartily.  'We  all  enjoyed  your 
singing.' 

'  Good  night,  guv'nor.' 

He  looked  very  hard  at  Felix  and  then  said : 

'Very  glad  to  see  you  at  lo  Emily  Street,  guv'nor,  any  time 
you  're  passing.  Excuse  the  liberty.  But  you  could  see  the 
missus  and  the  kids  now  if  you  was  to  come.' 

'  Thank  you  very  much.     I  will  come.     I  should  like  to.* 

'Right.     Any  day  you're  passing.' 

He  pulled  his  curl,  and  walked  quietly  away,  puffing  at  his 
pipe. 

Felix  went  back  to  the  theatre. 

'  Well,  where  is  he  ? '  asked  Lady  Caroline. 

Felix  explained  the  position  of  affairs. 

'So  I'm  refused!'  said  Lady  Caroline,  looking  exactly  the 
same  as  she  did  when  she  said  'Where  is  he?'  'Come  along, 
Valeria.  We  three  will  have  supper,  anyhow.  I  ate  nothing  at 
dinner.' 

Felix  began  to  suggest  that  perhaps  he  had  better  go  home  as 
it  was  so  late,  but  Lady  Caroline  cut  him  short. 

'Oh,  nonsense.  And  besides  you  must  see  Valeria  safely  to 
Green  Street  afterwards.' 

'Oh,  I  shall  be  delighted,'  said  Felix  honestly. 

While  they  drove  back  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  Lady 
Caroline  talked  a  good  deal.  As  the  night  wore  on  she  was 
gradually  becoming  more  lively.  She  was  evidently  amused  by 
the  '  Happy  Hal '  episode. 

•The  man  's  a  character,'  she  said.  'That  chin  of  his  means 
a  lot.     What  does  he  earn  ? ' 

•  I  believe  he  said  ten  pounds  a  week,'  said  Felix. 


FELIX  155 

'  Five  hundred  a  year.  For  a  workman  he 's  a  millionaire. 
I  wonder  what  his  London  mhiage  is  like  under  the  circum- 
stances. It  ought  to  be  worth  seeing.  Do  you  suppose  he 
lives  as  if  he  still  had  thirty  shillings  a  week,  or  as  if  he  were  a 
rich  man  ?     Consider  that  chin  and  tell  me.' 

Felix  considered  Hal's  chin,  but  could  not  form  an  idea. 

'  He  has  invited  me  to  pay  him  a  visit,'  he  said. 

'Go,' said  Lady  Caroline.  'You'll  be  rewarded.  Here  we 
are.' 

When  they  came  into  the  light  of  the  hall  Felix  noticed  that 
she  looked  younger  and  much  less  fatigued,  almost  like  a 
different  woman.  Indeed,  the  contrast  between  her  present 
appearance  and  her  appearance  at  dinner  was  quite  extra- 
ordinary ;  almost  unnatural,  he  thought.  At  the  music-hall  he 
had  been  too  intent  on  the  performance  to  observe  her  much. 
So  now  the  transformation  seemed  to  him  to  have  taken  place 
in  a  moment,  and  to  be  feverish.  When  they  were  at  supper, 
and  she  had  sent  the  man-servant  out  of  the  room,  which  she 
did  almost  directly,  her  animation,  born  out  of  the  most  ruthless 
and  unashamed  fatigue,  the  very  nakedness  of  mental  ennid^ 
quite  amazed  him.  She  was  talkative,  and  seemed  now  fully 
conscious  of  the  influence  of  her  companions,  fully  conscious  of 
herself  in  relation  to  them.  And  when  he  heard  her  talk  thus 
Felix  began  more  thoroughly  to  understand  why  she  was  powerful, 
a  personality  that  would  make  itself  felt  in  any  company. 

She  had  a  certain  grimness  of  humour  which  was  like  the 
humour  of  a  man  who  has  seen  so  much,  and  at  such  close 
quarters,  that  he  has  become  both  sardonic  and  careless,  but 
who  cherishes  quietly  that  internal  smile  in  which  the  cynic 
warms  himself.  She  also  evidently  had  knowledge  of  many 
kinds,  and  showed  it  in  haphazard  fashion,  as  if  entirely  free 
from  any  desire  either  to  impose  it  upon,  or  to  share  it  with 
others.  As  he  listened  to  her,  Felix  did  not  label  her  worldling, 
though  she  was  certainly  free,  even  audaciously  free  from 
religious  prejudices,  and  seemed  to  yield  obedience  to  no  code 
of  morals,  or  even  of  honour.  Once  or  twice  she  spoke  with 
obviously  unassumed  carelessness  of  things  which  most  women 
think  of  as  important,  if  not  as  sacred.  Thus  she  alluded, 
almost  with  disgust,  to  the  idea  of  motherhood,  and  seemed  to 
think  any  kind  of  domesticity  a  horrible  shackle  on  individual 
freedom.  Felix  wondered,  youthfully,  if  she  were  a  wicked 
woman.  She  could  not  be  a  good  one,  he  thought.  She 
puzzled  him.  At  one  moment  he  felt  that  there  was  something 
hateful  in  her,  at  another  that  she  had  a  strong  attraction  for  him. 


166  FELIX 

Mrs.  Ismey  was  permanently  fascinating.  But  then  she  cared 
to  be  fascinating. 

Both  women  ate  more  than  at  dinner,  and  when  they  got  up 
from  the  table  it  was  past  twelve  o'clock.  Lady  Caroline  led 
the  way  to  the  room  into  which  Felix  had  been  shown  on  his 
arrival.  A  large  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere was  very  hot.  The  lamp  with  the  red  shade  was  burning 
dimly. 

'  Make  yourself  at  home,'  said  Lady  Caroline  to  Felix. 
•Smoke — a  pipe  if  you  like.     I  don't  mind.' 

Felix  wondered  if  she  '  minded  '  anything. 

She  touched  a  bell.     The  footman  came. 

'Bring  Chicho,  please.     You've  put  everything ?'     She 

glanced  round  and  saw  a  little  table  covered  with  bottles, 
glasses,  and  boxes. — 'Yes.  Then  when  you've  brought  Chicho 
you  can  go  to  bed.' 

'  Thank  you,  my  lady.* 

Felix  felt  sorry  when  he  heard  her  order.  The  thought  of 
the  little  black  dog  repelled  him.  He  had  quite  forgotten 
Chicho  till  Lady  Caroline  mentioned  him. 

Mrs.  Ismey  had  sat  down  near  the  fire.  She  held  an  unlighted 
cigarette  in  one  hand,  and  was  stretching  out  her  other  hand 
for  a  box  of  matches.  The  firelight  danced  over  her  face  and 
made  her  bright,  individual  hair  glitter. 

'  How  is  Chicho  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  Oh,  very  happy.  At  least  he  was  when  I  left  him.  We  '11 
see  when  he  comes.' 

This  time,  as  when  they  had  spoken  of  the  little  dog  before, 
Felix  noticed  something  strange  in  their  manner  :  in  Mrs,  Ismey's 
a  sort  of  disgust  and  amusement  mingled,  a  sort  of  curiosity 
too ;  in  Lady  Caroline's  a  brutality,  and — well,  he  could  only 
think  of  the  word,  relish. 

'  Has  Chicho  been  ill?'  he  asked. 

He  heard  a  soft  laugh  from  the  sofa  where  Mrs.  Ismey  was 
sitting. 

'  Oh  no,'  Lady  Caroline  answered.  '  But,  you  know,  dogs  have 
their  moods  like  human  beings.     Haven't  they,  Valeria?' 

'Chicho  certainly  has — now,'  Mrs.  Ismey  replied. 

She  sighed.  Felix  looked  quickly  towards  her,  and  thought 
he  detected  an  expression  of  pain  on  her  face.  But  if  it  were 
so,  the  expression  died  at  once  in  a  smile. 

Just  then  the  footman  came  in,  carrying  the  little  dog  rather 
gingerly,  as  if  afraid  of  being  bitten.  Lady  Caroline  lifted 
Chicho  into  her  arms  and  bent  down  with  him  to  the  fire.     The 


FELIX  157 

yellow  glow  from  the  flames  shone  over  her  fat  face  and  the 
bristling  coat  of  the  animal,  which  blinked,  as  if  sleepy  and 
dazzled  by  the  light.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  better  temper  than 
when  he  was  in  Mrs.  Ismey's  house,  but  Felix  still  felt  a  horror 
of  him.  He  could  not  understand  the  sensation,  which  he 
had  never  felt  for  any  dog  before. 

But  Chicho  was  not  like  other  dogs. 

'He's  dreamy  to-night,' Lady  Caroline  said.  'I'll  put  him 
in  his  basket.  You  see  how  dreamy  and  soothed  he  is,'  she 
added  to  Mrs.  Ismey,  holding  Chicho  towards  her. 

Mrs.  Ismey  leaned  quickly  backward. 

'Yes,  yes,  I  can  see  quite  well,'  she  answered  hurriedly. 
*Put  him  into  his  basket.' 

Felix  was  sure  that  she  shared  his  repulsion.  Her  movement 
and  the  tone  of  her  voice  showed  it. 

Lady  Caroline  went  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  bent  down,  and 
came  back  without  Chicho. 

A  shuffling  noise  was  heard,  followed  in  a  moment  by  a  sigh. 
Chicho  was  evidently  settling  himself  again  to  the  sleep  from 
which  he  had  been  wakened. 


CHAPTER    XII 

IT  was  two  in  the  morning  when  Felix  came  out  upon  the  broad 
step  of  Lady  Caroline's  house  and  whistled  for  a  hansom. 
His  cheeks  were  flushed.  His  eyes  sparkled.  His  whole  body 
was  alive  with  the  peculiar  and  feverish  vitality  that  is  born  out  of 
the  dark  hours  and  never  visits  man  with  the  sun.  No  cabman 
responded  at  first  to  his  call.  He  blew  the  whistle  again  and 
waited.  The  broad  thoroughfare  was  dim  and  silent,  but  a  long 
way  off  he  saw  lamps  moving  to  and  fro  by  the  Marble  Arch. 
The  night  breeze,  which  stirred  softly,  was  full  of  the  soul  of 
autumn  and  of  distant  places.  It  was  here,  surely,  to  touch  his 
cheek  and  depart.  He  felt  its  cool,  moist  fingers  and  shivered. 
The  tonic  purity  of  this  breeze  startled  him  as  the  sound  of  the 
Angelus  bell  heard  in  the  garden  of  La  Maison  des  Alouettes 
had  startled  him.  He  whistled  again,  long  and  shrilly.  At  last 
a  cab  came  at  a  gallop,  and  drew  up  with  a  jerk  before  the  door. 
Felix  stepped  back  into  the  hall.  Mrs.  Ismey,  wrapped  in  a 
long  coat,  lined  and  trimmed  with  fur,  and  with  a  high  fur  collar 
standing  up  round  her  face  and  hair,  was  standing  at  the  door  of 
the  boudoir,  talking  earnestly  in  a  low  voice  to  Lady  Caroline, 
who  stood  leaning  against  the  wall  with  her  hands  behind  her, 
and  looking  down  at  her  feet.  Felix  waited.  He  did  not  like 
to  interrupt  them.  The  soft  murmur  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  voice 
reached  him.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  He  glanced  at  the 
faces  of  the  two  women.  They  looked  very  grave  in  the  faint 
light  of  the  hall.  Mrs.  Ismey  stopped  speaking  at  last.  She 
put  up  her  right  hand,  with  a  very  natural  gesture,  and  rested  it 
on  Lady  Caroline's  shoulder,  as  if  to  emphasise  something,  at 
the  same  time  looking  up  into  her  friend's  face.  Lady  Caroline, 
whose  eyes  were  still  cast  down,  shook  her  head  without  speaking. 
Mrs.  Ismey  made  some  quick,  brief  remark.  Lady  Caroline 
shook  her  head  again.  Then  Mrs.  Ismey  dropped  her  hand  and 
glanced  towards  Felix. 

'  Oh,  is  the  cab  there  ? '  she  said. 

*Yes,'  Felix  answered. 

*Then  I  '11  come.     Good  night,  Carrie.* 

158 


FELIX  159 

'Good  night/ 

Lady  Caroline  came  lounging  to  the  door  and  shook  hands 
with  Felix. 

'Come  and  see  me,'  she  said. 

'  Thank  you,  I  will.     I  have  so  enjoyed  this  evening.' 

She  seemed  quite  struck  by  the  energetic  sincerity  with  which 
he  spoke. 

*  Well,  then,  you  must  come  and  have  another,'  she  said, 
almost  genially. 

A  faint  smile  deepened  the  little  holes  on  either  side  of  her 
mouth. 

Felix  helped  Mrs.  Ismey  into  the  cab  and  gave  the  address 
to  the  man.  As  they  drove  away  he  took  off  his  hat  to  Lady 
Caroline,  who  was  standing  on  the  step  looking,  he  thought, 
profoundly  unconventional. 

Directly  they  had  started  Mrs.  Ismey  said  : 

'  I  don't  want  to  go  home  for  a  few  minutes.  I  want  some 
air.  Tell  him  to  drive  a  little  way  down  the  north  side  of  the 
Park.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix  eagerly. 

He  told  the  man  through  the  little  trap,  and  fancied  he  saw 
a  grim  smile  on  the  shadowy  section  efface  above  him. 

Mrs.  Ismey  sighed.  Felix  felt  the  warmth  of  her  long  coat 
against  him,  the  softness  of  the  sables.  He  noticed  again  the 
faint  perfume  he  had  smelt  in  the  carriage.  It  was  hers.  then. 
Now  it  seemed  to  be  gradually  dying  away,  like  some  withdrawn, 
languorous  melody,  pushed  towards  silence  by  the  light  fingers 
of  the  breeze.  And  the  perfume  and  the  breeze  were  surely  in 
antagonism,  and  communicated  to  him  a  sense  of  struggle, 
which  was  sad  because  it  seemed  to  be  of  the  essence  of  life  and 
inevitable.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  he  must  have  sighed  too, 
for  Mrs.  Ismey  said  : 

'  Do  you  feel  unhappy — you  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know.     But  why  shouldn't  I ?' 
'What  can  you  have  to  be  unhnppy  about?' 

'Well,  but  I  don't  think  one  always  wants  a  reason,'  said 
Felix.  'Sometimes  some  little  thing,  like  this  coming  suddenly 
into  the  air  after  being  shut  up  in  a  room,  makes  me  feel  quite 
different.     Don't  you  find  that  too?' 

Instead  of  replying  to  the  question,  she  said  : 

'  My  dear  boy,  if  you  want  to  be  happy  don't  let  yourself  be 
imaginative.' 

'  But  isn't  it  best  to  let  oneself  alone,  and  b(;  just  what  one 
naturally  is?'   said    Felix,   thinking   of  King    Marshall's   brief 


160  FELIX 

discourse,  which  had  made  an  immense  impression  upon 
him. 

'You  are  going  to  aim  at  being  natural  in  London?' 

'  Is  it  ridiculous?' 

'  I  should  rather  call  it  audacious.  Of  course  there  are  natural 
people  in  London  as  in  other  places.' 

'Lady  Caroline  is  one,  I  think,'  said  Felix. 

'Yes,  Carrie  is  certainly  that,  wh;itever  else  she  may  be,'  said 
Mrs.  Ismey  in,  Felix  thought,  a  slightly  constrained  voice. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  she  added  with  an 
obviously  forced  flippancy  : 

'  But  natural  Londoners  usually  live  in  Bedford  Park  and 
don't  count  very  much,  except  to  themselves.' 

Felix  felt  sure  that,  when  she  said  this,  she  was  trying  to  hide 
a  mood  that  prompted  her  to  say  something  serious,  perhaps 
even  violent. 

'  Isn't  that  the  real  thing,  though?'  he  answered.  'To  count 
very  much  to  oneself?  I  don't  mean  to  be  conceited,  but  to 
be '  he  hesitated. 

'  Go  on,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

He  thought  that  she  moved  slightly  as  she  spoke,  and  that 
her  coat  felt  warmer  against  him,  and  that  he  smelt  the  perfume 
more  distinctly. 

'  I  mean  to  be  all  right  to  oneself,  to  feel  that  one  is  being 
one's  true  self — isn't  that  the  chief  thing  ?  Oh,  I  can't  say  it 
properly.' 

He  felt  angry  at  the  awkward  sound  of  his  own  words. 

'Whatever  species  of  animal  that  true  self  is?'  she  asked. 

There  was  an  ironical  bitterness  in  her  intonation,  but  he 
scarcely  noticed  it,  for  his  mind  was  intent  now  on  the  subject 
they  were  discussing.  He  thought  suddenly  of  Baron  Hulot, 
and  instantly  he  remembered  the  glow  of  painful  enthusiasm 
that  had  swept  over  him  when  he  reached  the  end  of  La  Cousine 
Bette. 

'  By  Jove,  yes ! '  he  exclaimed,  with  an  almost  passionate 
energy.     '  Whatever  it  is.' 

'You  boy  ! '  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 

There  was  a  slight  break  in  her  voice. 

•Ami?' 

*  Don't  you  know  it?     Don't  you  rejoice  in  it?* 

•  Rejoice  in  it  ?     Why  should  I  ? ' 

'Never  mind.  But  tell  me  this.  Could  you  feel  admiration 
of,  or  even  devotion  to  sheer  wickedness,  if  it  was  not  artificial 
— a  studied  or  cultivated  wickedness — but  thoroughly  of  the 


FELIX  161 

nature,  deep-rooted  and  strong — specially  that,  strong?  Could 
you?' 

An  unusual  eagerness  had  come  into  her  voice. 

'  I  wonder,'  said  Felix.  '  I  believe — yes,  I  believe  I  could,' 
he  spoke  half  doubtfully — *at  least  I  suppose  I  could  if  I  met 
such  wickedness  in  life,  because  I  did  when  I  met  it  in  Balzac. 
And  I  felt  there  that  it  was  life.  It  startled  me,  you  know.  I 
don't  believe  I  could  have  thought  of  such  a  horror  for  myself. 
But  when  Balzac  did  I  felt — "there's  something  positively 
glorious  in  it." ' 

She  was  silent. 

*  Is  it  very  mad  of  me  ? '  he  asked. 

*  I  dare  say.  But  it 's  rather  natural.  Boys  are  often  like 
that ' 

She  broke  oflF.  Then,  with  a  sudden,  piercing  bitterness  she 
added : 

*  And  girls  too.' 

Felix  turned  half  round,  startled,  and  gazed  at  her.  All  her 
face  was  framed  in  the  collar  of  soft  fur,  on  which  her  round, 
white  chin  rested.  Her  body,  wrapped  in  her  coat,  looked  very 
long,  narrow,  and  straight.  And  she  was  smiling.  What  an 
enigma  she  was, 

'Oh,  I  do  so  wish  I  could  understand  you!'  he  exclaimed 
impetuously. 

'  Do  you?'  she  answered. 

He  had  not  changed  his  position,  and  was  still  looking 
eagerly  into  her  face  when  a  curious  and  horrible  alteration 
came  over  it.  Apparently  she  had  made  an  immense  effort  to 
smile,  and  wished  to  continue  it  so  long  as  Felix  was  looking 
at  her.  But  his  boyish  curiosity  outstayed  the  welcome  her 
power  could  give  it.  The  smile  flickered  away.  Her  face 
became  first  grave  and  then,  abruptly^  grotesque.  She  was  not 
really  a  pretty  woman.  She  was  only  a  woman  who  knew  how 
to  look  pretty,  and  she  lost  the  knowledge  under  the  influence 
of  emotion.  Felix  felt  almost  frightened  by  her  ugliness  now, 
as  her  mouth  twisted  to  one  side,  showing  her  teeth  pressed  upon 
the  under  lip.     She  put  up  her  hand  swiftly  to  her  face. 

*  Look  the  other  way  !    she  said,  in  a  quick,  uneven  voice. 
Felix  obeyed  instantly.     He  was  glad  to  obey,  but  though  he 

no  longer  saw  her  he  felt  her  body  shaking  against  his  side,  and 
though  he  heard  no  sound  he  knew  she  was  sol>bing.  He 
longed  to  speak  to  her,  to  say  something,  anything  that  would 
show  his  sympathy.  He  did  not  understand,  he  could  not 
conceive  the  cause  of  this  sudden  outburst  from  a  woman  so 

L 


162  FELIX 

thoroughly,  even  unusually  self-possessed.  But,  without  under- 
standing, he  could  pity  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  It  seemed 
to  him  a  long  time  before  he  heard  her  say : 

'Tell  the  cabman  to  turn  round,  please.' 

Felix  obeyed. 

'I  want  to  go  to  Wigmore  Street.' 

*  Wigmore  Street ! '  said  Felix,  in  astonishment. 

'  Yes.     Number ' 

She  gave  a  number. 

Felix  told  the  man  to  drive  there.  He  was  utterly  bewildered. 
What  could  she  be  going  to  do  at  such  an  hour  of  night  ?  They 
drove  on  for  some  time  in  silence.  Felix  looked  out  into  the 
road.  It  was  utterly  deserted.  Beyond  the  tall  iron  railings  lay 
the  blackness  of  the  park.  He  could  see  the  leafless  branches 
of  the  trees  which  lined  the  path  running  parallel  to  the  road. 
They  looked  most  abominable,  he  thought,  sinister  and  desolate. 
Their  nakedness  was  hideous  in  the  night.  When  the  branches 
were  still  they  were  like  something  seen  in  a  nightmare.  When 
they  moved  it  was  as  if  one  woke  and  found  that  the  nightmare 
was  a  reality. 

He  shivered. 

'  Why  do  you  do  that  ? '  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  almost  in  her  usual 
voice. 

'I  don't  know.     It's  the  cold,  I  suppose.' 

'When  we  get  to  Wigmore  Street  I  don't  wish  you  to  get  out 
of  the  cab.' 

'No.' 

'  Just  sit  still.     I  shan't  be  long.' 

She  stopped  speaking.     Then  she  went  on  : 

'Of  course  you  think  this  very  odd,  but  it  isn't  really.  I'm 
only  going  to  a  chemist.' 

'  Oh,  you  're  not  ill ! ' 

He  looked  at  her  again.  The  ugliness  had  not  quite  left  her 
face,  whose  features  looked  much  harder  than  usual,  but  there 
were  no  traces  of  tears. 

'I  don't  feel  particularly  well.  But  it's  nothing  to  bother 
about.  This  chemist  knows  me  and  can  give  me  something  to 
do  me  good.' 

'I  see.' 

'  I  may  be  with  him  a  few  minutes.' 

*0h,  I  don't  mind  how  long  I  wait,'  said  Felix  earnestly. 
•Please  don't  think  about  me.  I'm  only  awfully  sorry  for  you. 
I  mean  your  being  ill  Hke  this.' 

'You're  a  kind,  dear  boy,'  she  said. 


FELIX  163 

She  put  her  gloved  hand  on  his  for  a  moment.  Felix  felt  his 
pulses  beating  and  the  blood  rushed  to  his  forehead.  He  kept 
his  hind  quite  still  under  hers,  and  thought  how  wonderfully 
light  a  woman's  hand  is.  Mrs.  Ismey's  was  almost  like  a  bird 
resting  on  him,  and  when  she  took  it  away  he  felt  as  if  he  saw 
the  flight  of  the  bird.  They  were  in  the  dark  streets  now.  The 
cabman  elected  to  reach  Wigmore  Street  by  a  tortuous  slum, 
that  looked  like  the  back  of  a  mews.  He  turned  several  sharp 
corners.  One  of  the  wheels  grazed  a  post.  Mrs.  Ismey  shut 
her  two  hands  down  tightly  on  the  apron  of  the  cab. 

'  I  'm  abominably  nervous  to-night,'  she  said.  'Why  does  he 
go  this  way?     Oh,  we  are  close  now.' 

The  cab  stopped  at  last  before  a  silent,  shuttered  house,  at  a 
corner.  One  light  burned  behind  a  red  glass  lamp.  Under  it 
there  was  a  bell-handle.  Mrs.  Ismey  got  out  of  the  cab  quickly 
and  furtively. 

'I  won't  be  long,'  she  whispered. 

As  she  stepped  in  front  of  Felix  to  reach  the  pavement  she 
had  touched  his  hand  again.  She  rang  the  bell.  There  was  a 
long  interval  of  silence.  Felix  heard  the  cabman  clear  his  throat 
and  shift  on  his  perch.  The  horse  drooped  its  head  and  the 
reins  hung  loose.  Mrs.  Ismey,  who  stood  with  her  back  turned 
to  the  street,  pulled  the  bell  again,  and  Felix  saw  her  lift  her 
face  as  if  she  were  looking  up  at  the  windows  of  the  house, 
which  were  all  dark.  A  feeble  gust  of  wind  came  down  the 
street.  It  caught  a  bit  of  white  paper  and  sent  it  creeping  over 
the  pavement.  Felix  followed  it  with  his  eyes.  It  stopped, 
shook,  crept  on  again,  like  a  livid  thing  that  was  alive.  He  saw 
Mrs.  Ismey's  arm  move  violently  as  she  pulled  the  bell  for  the 
third  time.  A  minute  or  two  elapsed.  Then  the  door  opened 
noiselessly  and  the  vague  figure  of  a  man  partially  appeared. 
Mrs.  Ismey  made  a  forward  movement.  The  figure  disappeared. 
She  followed  it  and  the  door  shut  noiselessly. 

Felix  began  to  feel  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream,  and  although 
nothing  dreadful  had  happened,  he  felt  as  if  the  dream  were 
very  horrible,fullofblackness,hiddcn  things, despair.  The  silence 
of  London  by  night  appalled  his  imagination.  This  crowd  of 
tall,  dark  houses,  stretching  away  on  all  sides,  voiceless, 
mysterious,  sent  a  cold  shudder  through  him,  now  that  he  had 
seen  one  of  them  open,  like  a  creature  with  a  mouth,  and 
swallow  up  Mrs.  Ismey  The  vague  figure  of  the  man  suggested 
formless  terrors  to  him.  ^Vhat  manner  of  man  was  he?  Was 
she  safe  shut  up  there  with  him?  The  time  seemed  very  long. 
What  could  be  happening  ?     The  red  lamp  was  like  a  bloodshot 


164  FELIX 

eye  keeping  watch  before  an  ambush.  He  heard  the  cabman 
moving  about  and  coughing.  The  horse  shook  itself  as  horses 
shake  themselves  when  they  are  frightfully  over-tired.  There  was 
a  sound  of  distant  footsteps  far  down  the  street.  They  were  quick 
and  pattering  and  drew  rapidly  near.  Felix  hoped  Mrs.  Ismey 
would  not  come  out  till  they  had  passed.  He  hated  the  idea  of 
her  being  seen  by  any  one  coming  from  that  house  in  the  dead 
of  the  night.  Presently  the  footsteps  stopped.  Felix  listened, 
but  did  not  hear  them  again.  He  wondered  why  they  had 
stopped,  whether  some  one  was  standing  near  in  the  dark,  waiting, 
as  he  was  waiting,  to  see  the  door  of  the  black  house  open. 
After  a  minute  or  two  he  began  to  feel  certain  that  some  one 
was  watching.  He  leaned  forward  over  the  apron,  which  he  had 
closed  after  Mrs.  Ismey  got  out,  turned  his  head  and  looked 
down  the  street  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound  of  the 
footsteps  had  come.  But  he  saw  no  one,  nothing  but  the  vista 
of  the  street,  the  two  lines  of  houses  drawing  together  in  the 
distance,  the  two  lines  of  lamps  diminishing  in  the  darkness. 

All  the  rest  of  his  life  he  wondered,  now  and  then,  who  had 
pattered  down  Wigmore  Street  that  night,  what  manner  of  human 
being,  intent  on  what  nocturnal  errand. 

As  he  leaned  back  once  more  in  the  cab  the  chemist's  door 
noiselessly  opened  again,  and  Mrs.  Ismey  glided  swiftly  out. 
Felix  hurriedly  pushed  back  the  apron.  She  was  by  his  side  in 
an  instant. 

'  Now,  Green  Street,'  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

As  they  drove  off  the  chemist's  door  closed.  This  time  Felix 
had  seen  no  vague  figure  in  the  aperture.  The  opening  and 
shutting  were  apparently  autcimatic.  Mrs.  Ismey  did  not  speak. 
Nor  did  Felix.  He  was  sitting  by  a  mystery,  but  it  was  no 
business  of  his  to  ask  questions  of  the  mystery.  He  had  quite 
forgotten  that  he  had  meant  to  find  out  from  his  companion 
why  she  had  required  of  him  the  sacrifice  of  a  possible  career. 
All  thought  of  his  affairs,  his  life,  had  left  him.  He  was  pre- 
occupied with  hers.  Neither  of  them  said  a  word  till  the  cab 
turned  into  Green  Street.  Then  Mrs.  Ismey  moved  to  put  her 
hand  into  some  recess  of  her  long  fur  coat.  She  drew  it  out 
holding  a  latch-key,  and  then  looked  at  Felix.  Her  eyes  were 
shining. 

'It's  hardly  necessary  to  ask  you,  I  know,'  she  murmured, 
'  but  I  don't  want  you  ever  to  mention  my  visit  to  Wigmore 
Street  to-night.  People  always  think  such  absurd  things  about 
one's  health — especially  husbands.' 

'  Of  course  I  never  will,'  said  Felix. 


FELIX  165 

The  horse  stopped. 

'Good  night,'  she  said.  'You 've  been  very  nice  to  me.  No, 
sit  still.' 

She  squeezed  his  hand,  putting  the  palm  of  her  hand  upon 
the  back  of  his,  and  closing  her  fingers  for  an  instant  till  they 
were  in  his  palm.  And,  somehow,  this  farewell  seemed  to 
Felix  almost  like  a  caress,  and  quite  different  from  the  con- 
ventional touch  of  hand  with  hand. 

A  moment  later  she  had  vanished  into  her  house  without 
looking  back. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

IN  the  dawn  of  that  morning  Felix  sat  writing  to  his  mother. 
He  had  found  it  impossible  to  go  to  sleep.  Indeed,  when 
he  lay  down  in  bed,  the  excitement  of  his  mind  increased.  A 
torrent  of  thought  rushed  through  his  brain  and  he  felt  like  one 
hot  with  fever.  He  got  up  again,  dressed,  walked  about  his 
little  sitting-room.  The  Chinese  idols,  propped  up  with  their 
wedges  of  folded  paper,  stared  at  him  with  their  narrow  eyes,  as 
if  humorously  surprised  by  his  nocturnal  activity.  Felix  thought 
sarcasm  lurked  in  their  immobile  faces,  and  remembered  the 
satire  in  Mrs.  Ismey's  eyes  on  the  evening  of  his  first  meeting 
with  her.  He  had  been  half  afraid  of  her  then.  He  had  never 
thought  that  he  could  pity  her.  Yet  now  he  did  pity  her.  For 
what?  He  did  not  know.  But  he  felt  that  there  was  something 
dreary  and  dreadful  in  her  life.  That  ugly  change  in  her  face, 
a  change  which  she  had  wished  to  hide,  could  only  have  been 
caused  by  some  deep-seated,  strongly  rooted  ill.  He  wondered 
what  that  ill  was,  whether  it  was  physical.  Perhaps  she  suffered 
from  one  of  those  torturing  bodily  persecutions  which  render 
the  lives  of  so  many  human  beings  a  burden.  If  so,  did  Mr. 
Ismey  know  it  ?  Was  it,  perhaps,  that  knowledge  which  had 
set  the  perpetual  sorrow  in  his  eyes?  With  an  almost  furious 
rapidity  Felix  reconsidered  the  whole  of  his  short  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Ismey,  searching  for  the  truth  of  her  grief.  He 
recalled  the  curious  incident  in  the  garden,  when  she  had  sent 
him  away  for  a  moment  to  look  in  at  the  drawing-room  window. 
He  had  never  understood  that,  nor  the  very  marked  physical 
change  which  had  followed  her  instant  of  solitude.  Under- 
stood  !   What  did  he  understand  in  her?    Anything?   Once 

more  an  almost  passionate  anger  at  his  ignorance  surged  into 
his  heart.  To  get  away  from  it  he  sat  down  to  write  to  his 
mother. 

At  least  he  understood  her.  The  thought  of  her  simplicity 
was  soothing  just  then,  and  presently  brought  back  to  him  some 
of  the  old,  pleasant  sense  of  superiority  which  had  been  his 
companion  at   La   Maison    des   Alouettes  when   he  dissected 

160 


FELIX  167 

Grand'mere,  and,  later,  at  Churston  Waters.  And,  being 
soothed,  he  wrote  a  letter  that  was  not  wholly  impatient. 
Nevertheless  it  was  firm.  He  said  to  his  mother — he  thought 
in  very  convincing  and  excellent  language — that  a  man  must 
stand  or  fall  by  his  own  will,  that  he  must  be  a  free  agent  if  he 
is  to  be  a  man  at  all,  that  he  cannot  be  governed  in  his  choice 
of  a  life  by  women  if  he  is  to  preserve  his  self-respect.  Not  even 
a  mother  can  think  for  him.  The  burden  of  the  letter  was 
'  Trust  me.'  Perhaps  because  he  was  really  tired,  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  and  in  a  condition  of  nervous  excitement, 
Felix  was  carried  away,  intoxicated  by  his  own  prose.  At  any 
rate  his  letter  seemed  to  him  a  most  manly  and  even  touching 
composition.  He  begged  his  mother  to  learn  to  rely  on  him  a 
little  more,  and  said  that,  if  she  did  so,  he  was  the  more  likely 
to  prove  himself  worthy  of  her  reliance.  It  was  difficult,  he  said 
further,  to  do  what  was  right  if  one  were  always  suspected  of 
being  about  to  do  what  was  wrong.  As  he  went  on,  developing 
this  idea  in  the  small  and  silent  hours,  he  came  to  think  that  his 
mother  had  really  injured  him  in  her  thought  and  that  he  was 
being  almost  nobly  magnanimous.  Without  conceit,  he  felt  as 
he  sealed  the  letter  that  he  was  a  fine  fellow.  He  had  not 
forgotten  to  say  that  Stephen  was  not  his  ruler,  and  must  not 
interfere  in  his  affairs.  The  labour  of  composition  left  him 
conscious  that  the  night  was  meant  for  rest  and  was  over.  He 
undressed,  went  to  bed,  and  at  last  was  able  to  fall  asleep.  When 
his  servant  called  him  he  felt  as  if  the  night  had  only  just  begun, 
sent  the  man  away  and  slept  again  till  nearly  one  o'clock.  He 
had  breakfast  instead  of  lunch,  and  faced  a  day  that  seemed 
thoroughly  disorganised.  He  longed  to  go  and  call  on  Mrs. 
Ismey,  but  did  not  like  to,  fearing  to  be  intrusive  or  a  bore. 
Finally  he  went  out  and  left  cards  on  three  sets  of  people  to 
whom  he  had  introductions.  It  was  only  four  o'clock  when  this 
social  task  was  accomplished,  and  as  he  walked  away  from  the 
third  house,  which  was  in  Cadogan  Square,  he  was  suddenly 
overwhelmed  with  depression  at  having  no  tie  of  work  in  London. 
It  was  awful  to  think  of  drifting  on,  perhaps  for  months,  with 
no  regular  occupation  to  fill  his  day  and  make  the  evening  a 
delightful  contrast  of  ease.  He  remembered,  actually  for  the 
first  time,  that  he  had  never  asked  Mrs.  Ismey  that  question, 
why  she  had  deprived  him  of  the  advantage  offered  to  him  by 
her  husband.  Should  he  go  and  ask  her  now?  He  stood  for  a 
moment  at  the  corner  of  Sloane  Street  hesitating.  Then  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  had  no  right  to  call  again  so  soon, 
that  it  would  be  a  solecism,  and  would  perhaps  be  regarded  as 


168  FELIX 

evidence  of  his  lack  of  acquaintance  with  the  rules  of  London 
life.  He  began  to  walk  home  drearily,  but  when  he  reached 
Victoria  Street  a  happy  thought  struck  him,  and  made  h'.m  feel 
quite  cheerful.  Why  not  call  on  Hal  Blake?  This  time  he  did 
not  hesitate,  but  turned  at  once  in  the  direction  of  the  Vauxhall 
Bridge  Road.  After  walking  for  two  or  three  minutes  he  asked 
a  policeman  the  way  to  Emily  Street. 

'Second  turn  to  the  left,  first  to  the  right,  and  first  to  the  left 
again,'  said  the  policeman  in  a  loud  bass  voice,  without  glancing 
at  him. 

Felix  followed  the  direction,  and  soon  found  himself  in  a 
quarter  of  London  that  was  obviously  free  from  any  tyranny  of 
fashion. 

Emily  Street  lies  in  a  region  at  the  back  of  Victoria  Street 
close  to  the  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road.  It  is  a  narrow  and  rather 
squalid  thoroughfare,  depressing  but  not  wicked  in  appearance. 
A  sort  of  pained  respectability  seems  stamped  upon  it.  The 
flat,  mean  houses  with  their  dim  windows,  their  dingy  doors  and 
furtive  little  areas,  are  almost  exactly  alike.  Here  and  there  one 
has  been  freshly  painted,  and  looks  outrageous  among  its 
discoloured  brethren,  like  some  over-dressed  intruder  at  a 
funeral.  In  the  glass  fanlights  above  the  doors  may  be  seen 
many  dirty  cards  with  'Furnished  apartments'  printed  upon 
them,  for  Emily  Street  is  one  of  the  refuges  of  solitary  men  with 
small,  steady  incomes,  clerks  in  city  ware'nouses,  shorthr.nd 
writers,  shopwalkers  in  '  Emporiums,' those  unmarried  workers 
of  the  lower  middle-classes  who  swarm  in  great  cities  and  who, 
having  aspirations  and  being  exceedin;;iy  respectable,  like  to 
live  in  what  they  call  a  'first-rate  neighbiurhood'  and  to  have 
a  'good  address.'  There  was  no  doubt  that  'Emily  Street, 
Victoria,  S.W.'  looked  very  well  on  a  piece  of  notepaper,  and 
gave  a  sort  oi  cachet  to  the  man  entitled  to  print  it  on  his  cards, 
if  he  had  any.  Yet  Felix,  accustomed  to  live  in  a  pretty  country 
place  and  to  look  out  on  gardens,  found  himself  wondering, 
as  he  walked  down  it,  how  any  human  being  could  select  it 
deliberately  as  a  home.  Victoria  Street  was  d/eary,  perha}  s, 
but  life  flowed  perpetually  through  it.  The  bu&tle  of  a  main 
thoroughfare  vitalised  it.  In  Emily  Street  there  was  a  sort  of 
stagnant  calm,  a  childless,  dingy  peace  which  was  like  a  heavy 
weight. 

He  walked  to  number  ten,  and  knocked  upon  a  weather- 
stained  door,  which  had  once  been  chocolate  coloured.  There 
was  no  answer.  He  knocked  again,  and  pulled  at  a  handle 
which  protruded  from  the  area  railing.     A   bell   rang  in  the 


FELIX  169 

narrow  basement  and,  in  a  moment,  he  saw  a  head  crowned 
with  a  filthy  cap  pushed  into  view  from,  presumably,  the  kitchen 
window,  and  a  lantern-jawed  girl's  face  turned  towards  him  with 
an  expression  of  sluttish  curiosity.  After  an  instant's  pause, 
and  before  he  had  spoken,  the  head  was  slowly  withdrawn,  and 
presently  a  slouching  and  uneven  step  was  audible  in  the  passage. 
The  door  was  opened  and  the  lantern-jawed  girl,  who  was  attired 
in  a  very  dirty  print  dress,  stood  in  the  aperture. 

'  Can  I  see  Mr.  Hal  Blake  ?  '  asked  Felix.     '  Is  he  in  ? 

'Yes,'  replied  the  girl,  in  a  husky  alto  voice,  'he  is  in.* 

She  evidently  had  a  severe  cold. 

'Can  I  see  him?'  repeated  Felix. 

The  girl  examined  him  with  the  acute  suspicion  that  springs 
from  lack  of  intellect. 

'Well,  I  dunno,'  she  said  at  last.     'Are  you  from  the  'alls?' 

'  No.    Mr.  Blake  asked  me  to  call.' 

'Oh,  then  I'll  see.' 

The  girl  sneezed  violently,  turned  round,  sneezed  again  with 
her  back  to  Felix,  went  slowly  up  the  narrow  staircase  and 
disappeared.  In  two  or  three  minutes  she  returned,  stopped 
on  the  stairs  directly  she  was  in  sight,  and  called  out : 

'  You  can  come  up.' 

Felix  obeyed  the  bronchial  injunction,  and  was  speedily 
ushered  into  a  typical  London  chamber  by  the  sneezing  servant. 
It  was  what  is  called  by  landladies  the  '  double.'  In  the  front, 
looking  forth  upon  the  joys  of  Emily  Street,  was  a  good-sized 
parlour,  which  communicated  by  folding-doors  with  a  bedroom, 
whose  one  window  peered  out  upon  some  dingy,  lost  region 
given  over  to  paving-stones  and  despairing  cats.  On  the  parlour 
side  of  the  folding-doors  hung,  against  the  yellow  wood,  a  pair 
of  white  curtains  of  imitation  lace,  made  in  some  stiff  and 
uncompromising  material,  and  looped  with  brown  bows.  There 
was  a  cottage  piano,  and  a  set  of  furniture  consisting  of  a  sofa 
and  two  armchairs,  upholstered  in  much  rubbed  and  disfigured 
brown  plush  with  a  yellow  trimming  of  tags  and  balls.  In  the 
centre  of  the  room  stood  a  solid  square  table,  covered  with  a 
green  cloth  and  bearing  proudly  the  weight  of  some  unknown 
green  plant,  whose  two  spiky  leaves  aspired  from  a  black  china 
pot  on  which  sprawled  a  pattern  of  pink  cabbage  roses.  Pushed 
in  to  this  table  were  several  hard  chairs.  Beyond  it,  against  the 
wall,  was  a  sideboard  decorated  with  two  tarnished  salvers.  The 
wall  paper  was  brown,  with  a  yellow  pattern  of  jiagodas  upon  it. 
On  cither  side  of  the  small,  round  top  of  each  pagoda  were  two 
yellov\    b'rds  with  hooked  noses,   in  flight.     Th.ere  were  three 


170  FELIX 

prints  upon  the  walls.  One  showed  a  stout  lady  in  a  pelisse 
and  white  stockings  being  upset  out  of  a  coach  upon  a  desolate 
moor.  Another  represented  John  Gilpin  at  the  most  acute  stage 
of  his  troubled  career.  The  third  was  a  portrait  of  Qir<=en 
Victoria  riding  with  the  Iron  Duke. 

Felix  waited.  His  sense  of  the  joy  of  life  was  decidedly  on 
the  wane.  The  folding-doors  were  ajar,  and  he  could  not  help 
hearing  a  slight  rustling  and  sound  of  suppressed  whispering  in 
the  inner  room.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  lady  in  the  pelisse, 
whose  mouth  was  a  round  O  of  agony,  and  thought  how  ghastly 
existence  must  be  in  such  a  room. 

'  Glad  to  see  you,  guv'nor,'  said  a  firm  voice,  and  Happy  Hal 
emerged  from  the  inner  room  and  shut  the  folding-doors 
carefully  behind  him. 

Felix  felt  a  sense  of  relief.  He  shook  hands  with  Hal,  who 
looked  at  him  with  an  unflinching  serenity  which,  apparently, 
never  changed. 

'Sit  down,  guv'nor,'  continued  Hal,  placing  one  of  the  arm- 
chairs before  the  grate,  which  was  filled  with  a  white-and-gold 
paper  parasol.     '  Glad  to  see  you.' 

Felix  sat  down  and  Hal  took  a  seat  opposite.  He  had  dis- 
carded his  workman's  costume,  and  wore  a  black-and-white 
check  suit  and  brown  boots. 

'Ah,'  he  continued,  seeing  that  Felix  had  noticed  this  fact, 
'funny  thing,  ain't  it,  guv'nor,  the  missus  can't  get  used  to  it. 
Every  ni^ht,  when  I  puts  on  the  others  to  go  to  the  Hall,  she 
says,  "Hal,"  she  says,  "now  you're  yourself."  But,  in  my 
position,  it  don't  do  to  go  walking  about  London  in  'em,  does 
it,  guv'nor?' 

He  spoke  quite  without  conceit,  with  an  air  of  simple 
knowledge  of  his  situation. 

'  Certainly  not,'  said  Felix.  '  And  how  does  your  wife  like 
being  in  London?' 

Hal  pursed  up  his  small  mouth  and  slightly  shook  his  cropped 
head. 

'She  doesn't  like  it?' 

*  Well,  guv'nor,  you  see  she 's  strange  to  it,  and  she  ain't  got 
the  hang  of  it  yet,  as  you  might  say.  She 's  that  confused  with 
it  she  gets  angry  like.  And  then  she  will  have  it  as  London 's  a 
wicked  place.' 

Hal  paused.  His  large,  brown  hands  were  lying  upon  his 
sturdy  knees,  palm  downward.  He  lifted  one  of  them  and 
dropped  it  down  again  on  his  check  trouser. 

« A wicked  place,  guv'nor,'  he  said,  using  his  adjective. 


FELIX  171 

Felix  could  not  help  smiling  at  his  earnestness. 

'Well,  I  suppose  it  is,'  he  said. 

'And  ain't  there  any  wickedness  in  Dover?'  asked  Hal. 
'Ain't  there,  guv'nor?' 

'Oh,  of  course  there  is.' 

'  That 's  what  I  tell  her,  guv'nor.  I  says  to  her,  "  Go  where 
you  will,  Anne,"  I  says,  "there's  wickedness."  But  there,  she 
will  have  it  there's  no  wickedness  like  there  is  in  London.' 

'  Perhaps  she  '11  get  more  accustomed  to  it  presently,'  said 
FeliX)  in  an  almost  severely  grave  voice. 

'  That 's  what  I  says,  but  she  says,  "  I  don't  want  to  get  used 
to  no  wickedness,"  she  says.     Funny  things  women.' 

Hal  heaved  a  sigh.  His  face  wore  always  a  calm  and  rumin- 
ating expression,  but  it  was  evident  that  he  was  slightly  worried. 
Felix  was  about  to  offer  some  further  attempt  at  consolation 
when  the  folding-doors  were  opened  a  very  little  way,  and  a 
small,  thin  woman  initiated  herself  into  the  room  with  a  sort  of 
fluttered  precaution,  as  if,  though  under  some  compulsion  she 
presented  herself  to  the  view  of  the  two  people  in  the  parlour  of 
the  '  double,'  she  wished  to  remain  as  unobserved  as,  under  the 
circumstances,  was  possible. 

Mrs.  Blake  was  one  of  those  extraordinarily  respectable-looking 
little  women  who  are  only  found  in  so-called  humble  life.  No 
lady,  however  virtuous,  however  self-respecting,  could  have 
achieved  her  peculiar  expression  of  wary  decency,  could  have 
moved  with  the  pinched  and  cautious  propriety  which  was 
characteristic  of  her.  She  was  a  clean,  careful,  conscious  little 
body,  with  smooth  brown  hair  and  small  pointed  features  of  the 
nut-cracker  type,  neat  and  not  inexpressive,  anxious  but  not  ill- 
natured  grey  eyes  under  faint,  light  eyebrows,  small  hands  and 
feet,  and  rather  sharp  shoulder-blades  and  elbows.  Many 
women  of  her  type  look  shrewish.  Mrs.  Blake  looked  merely 
as  if  she  were,  by  nature,  highly  strung. 

When  she  saw  Felix  she  dropped  a  small  curtsey,  and  smoothed 
the  front  of  what  was  evidently  her  best  gown,  a  lavender  merino 
with  a  wandering  white  riband  on  it,  with  anxious  fingers.  Felix 
got  up  quickly  and  shook  hands  with  her.  He  did  not  exactly 
know  why,  but  he  felt  at  once  a  strong  sympathy  with  this 
small,  spare  hostess  in  her  furnished  London  parlour.  Perhaps 
he  guessed  how  much  more  at  home  she  used  to  feel  in  her 
Dover  kitchen.  Hal  said,  in  his  powerful  voice,  '  Mrs.  Blake, 
guv'nor,'  and  they  all  tliree  sat  down  again  facing  the  white-and- 
gold  paper  parasol.  Mrs.  Blake  looked  at  it  firmly,  and  kept 
on  smoothing  the  lavender  merino  with  her  small  hands,  which 


172  FELIX 

it  was  easy  to  see  had  had  plenty  to  do  with  the  washtub  fn 
former  days. 

'  I  've  been  hearing  your  husband  sing,'  said  Fehx,  to  begin 
conversation.     '  He  sings  splendidly.' 

'  Hal  was  always  a  musician,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  in  a  thin, 
company  voice. 

'His  singing  must  be  a  great  pleasure  to  you.' 

*Yes,  sir,  we  all  set  great  store  by  it,'  said  Mrs.  Blake. 

She  gave  a  slight  cough,  folded  her  hands  and  added : 

'At  Dover,  sir.' 

'Now,  Anne,'  said  Hal,  with  a  tinge  of  reproach  in  his 
pleasant  voice,  'you  know  it  ain't  no  different  here.' 

'  I  didn't  say  so,  Hal.  I  said  to  the  gentleman  we  all  set 
great  store  by  your  singing  at  Dover.     And  so  we  did.' 

Hal  seemed  about  to  say  something,  for  he  opened  his  mouth, 
but  he  closed  it  again  without  uttering  a  word.  Mrs.  Blake 
fixed  her  anxious  eyes  firmly  on  the  paper  parasol,  and  added 
reflectively : 

'  I  'm  sure  your  mates  thought  the  world  and  all  of  you  at 
Dover,  Hal.' 

'There's  more  to  think  about  me  in  London,  Anne,'  said  her 
husband. 

'  Maybe  there  is  and  maybe  there  isn't,'  she  replied. 

'  She  can't  see  as  how  it 's  more  when  folk  like  a  chap  in 
London,  guv'nor,  than  what  it  is  when  thev  like  him  in  Dover,' 
said  Hal,  addressing  himself  to  Felix.  'But  there  is  a  differ- 
ence, ain't  there?' 

'Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Blake,' said  Felix.  'When  London  likes  any 
one  it  means  that  he  would  be  appreciated  anywhere  in  the  world.' 

Mrs.  Blake  looked  quite  unconvinced,  but  she  replied  respect- 
fully, though  formally: 

'  I  'm  very  glad  you  say  so,  sir,  and  if  it  pleases  Hal  for 
London  folk  to  come  after  him.' 

'Anne  will  have  it  that  I  like  'em  staring  at  me  as  they  do, 
guv'nor,'  interposed  Hal.  'It  ain't  a  bit  of  good  me  telling  'er 
as  it's  part  of  the  show.  I  can't  sing  to  'em  from  behind  the 
"  drop,"  can  I  now?' 

'  Oh,  come,  Mrs.  Blake,  I  'm  sure  you  're  really  proud  of  your 
husband's  making  such  a  success  up  here,'  said  Felix  cheerfully. 

He  felt  that  Hal  looked  to  him  as  an  ally,  and  relied  upon 
him  to  bring  Mrs.  Blake  to  a  proper  appreciation  of  their 
admirable  situation. 

'  Why,'  he  continued,  'just  think  of  what  it  means.  Think  of 
the  money  he  earns.' 


FELIX  173 

'Yes,  I  know,  sir,'  she  replied,  still  in  the  same  unconvinced 
voice. 

She  shot  a  glance  of  mysterious  and  complicated  suspicion 
towards  the  door,  looked  at  her  husband,  pursed  her  lips  and 
said  : 

'That  girl  don't  bring  the  tea,  you  see,  Hal.' 

'  Now  please  don't  order  anything  for  me,'  Felix  began. 

'We  hope  you'll  take  a  cup  of  tea,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  with 
a  sort  of  steadfast  hospitality.  '  Not  as  we  get  it  here  like  I  can 
make  it,  though  I  says  it  myself.' 

'Her  brew  is  Ai,  sir,'  threw  in  Hal,  evidently  anxious  to  pro- 
pitiate his  wife.  '  But,  as  we  are  now,  I  don't  like  her  going 
down  in  the  kitchen.' 

'Oh,  I  wouldn't  go,  not  in  this  kitchen,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  with 
sudden  vivacity.     '  I  never  knew  any  girl  to  be  so  slow,  Hal.' 

At  this  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  clattering  of  crockery 
and  a  stumbling  step  outside.  A  pause  followed,  and  a  pro- 
longed fumbling  at  the  handle  of  the  door.  Mrs.  Blake  tucked 
in  her  lips,  till  her  mouth  looked  like  a  purse,  drawn  together  in 
the  old-fashioned  way  by  a  riband.  All  her  features  seemed  to 
Felix  to  become  suddenly  more  nut-cracker  in  type. 

'Why  ever  don't  she  come  in,  Hal?'  she  inquired,  as  if  asking 
for  information  about  some  savage  animal  from  the  keeper  of  a 
menagerie. 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  get  up,  but  before  he  could  do 
so  the  door  was  burst  open,  and  disclosed  a  view  of  the  back  of 
the  slatternly  servant,  with  the  worn  heel  of  the  slipper  which, 
with  the  foot  inside  it,  had  just  been  applied  to  the  wood, 
presented  uncompromisingly  to  the  eyes  of  the  assembled  com- 
pany. Mrs.  Blake  turned  down  one  corner  of  her  mouth,  and 
cast  a  look  of  searching  interrogation  at  her  husband,  while  the 
servant  swung  awkwardly  round,  and  shuffled  into  the  room 
bearing  a  japanned  tray,  which  she  set  down  with  a  bang  and  a 
rattle  upon  the  table.  She  then,  after  a  loud  sneeze,  proceeded 
to  the  sideboard,  opened  a  drawer  and  extracted  a  tablecloth. 

'Why  ever  don't  she  lay  the  cloth  before  setting  that  down 
there  ? '  whispered  Mrs.  Blake  to  Hal.  '  She  '11  only  have  to  take 
it — I  never  knew  such  a  gal  to  sneeze.' 

The  servant  was  delivering  herself  of  a  striking,  and  even 
sensational  demonstration,  while  shaking  out  the  cloth  in  airy, 
round-backed  waves.  Having  at  length  in  some  degree  re- 
covered herself,  she  advanced  to  the  table  and  began  to  put  the 
cloth  on  it.  Mrs.  Blake's  face  was  a  study  during  this  pro- 
ceeding.    A  keen  severity  appeared  upon  it,  combined  with  a 


174  FELIX 

fastidiously  critical  expression  which  quite  transformed  her, 
turning  her — so  FeHx  thought — into  a  being  ahnost  painfully 
intelligent.  The  servant,  who  was  evidently  quite  unconcerned, 
obsessed  by  her  tremendous  cold,  laid  the  cloth  up  to  the  tray, 
and  then  paused,  snuffling,  to  consider  what  course  to  pursue, 
whether  to  remove  the  tray  to  the  sideboard  or  to  heave  it  up 
and  get  the  cloth  under  it. 

'  Whatever 's  she  going  to  do  now,  Hal  ? '  whispered  Mrs.  Blake. 
'  Why  ever  don't  she ? ' 

At  this  moment  the  girl  came  to  a  decision,  lifted  the  tray 
partially  up  with  one  hand  and  shoved  the  tablecloth  under  it 
with  the  other.  Some  tea  ran  out  round  the  lid  of  the  over-full 
teapot  and  slopped  into  the  tray. 

'T'ch,  t'ch,  t'ch,  t'ch,'  went  Mrs.  Blake. 

She  was  turning  to  cast-iron.  The  girl  set  the  table,  slightly 
protruding  her  tongue  as  she  calculated  the  distances  that  ought 
to  stretch  between  the  plates.  When  she  had  finished  she  said, 
in  the  husky  alto  voice  : 

'Tea  's  ready.' 

*  Wherever 's  the  buttered  toast,  Hal?'  said  Mrs.  Blake  to  her 
husband,  still  in  the  same  stage  whisper. 

It  was  evident  that  she  regarded  the  girl  as  some  strange  and 
untoward  phenomenon,  as  to  whose  habits  and  customs  she 
could  not  even  make  a  guess,  whose  reasons  for  doing  or  for 
leaving  undone  this  or  that  were  altogether  beyond  her. 

'Where's  the  buttered  toast,  Mary?'  asked  Hal. 

The  girl  glanced  round  the  table  with  a  lack-lustre  eye. 

'Ain't  I  brought  ut?'  she  said. 

'  No,  you  ain't ! '  said  Mrs.  Blake  sharply,  addressing  her  for 
the  first  time. 

'  I  s'pose  I  must  a'  left  ut  in  the  kitchen,  then,'  responded  the 
girl  without  emotion.     '  I  '11  go  and  see.' 

She  made  a  fatigued  exit. 

'Why  ever  should  she  leave  it  in  the  kitchen,  Hal?'  inquired 
Mrs.  Blake. 

'  I  dunno,  Anne,'  said  Hal.  'But  she's  got  a  bit  of  a  cold. 
Will  you  sit  to  the  table,  guv'nor  ? ' 

They  all  three  drew  up  to  the  table.  Mrs.  Blake  was  at  the  head 
of  it  before  the  plated  teapot.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  far 
too  deeply  <  gaged  in  the  exercise  of  the  critical  faculty  to  take 
any  share  for  the  moment  in  general  conversation.  It  seemed 
to  Felix  that  her  thin  figure  had  grown  thinner,  her  small, 
pointed  features  sharper  under  the  stress  of  the  mental  activity 
which  consumed  her  at  this,  to  her,  most  painful  moment.     She 


FELIX  175 

lifted  the  Hd  and  darted  a  piercing  glance  of  inquiry  into  the 
pot.  There  was  a  silence  while  the  two  men  watched  her. 
Then  she  dropped  the  lid  and  said  to  Hal : 

'  If  she  hasn't  left  in  this  morning's  leaves,  Hal  !' 
The  criminal  laziness  of  London  was  surely  summed  up  and 
securely  enshrined  in  that  one  sentence  as  uttered  by  Mrs. 
Blake.  There  was  no  more  to  be  said,  and  Hal  evidently  knew 
it,  for  he  formed  his  lips  into  a  round  O,  as  if  about  to  whistle, 
fixed  his  bright  eyes  on  his  wife,  and  shook  his  bullet  head 
without  a  word,  while  she,  with  a  face  of  stone  and  the  rigid 
hand  of  utter  disillusion,  poured  the  black  and  stewy  liquid  into 
three  cups  and  added  sugar  and  milk.  As  she  finished,  the  girl, 
once  more  a-sneeze,  re-entered  with  a  plate  containing  buttered 
toast  cut  into  lozenge  form.  She  put  it  down  on  the  table  and 
then  glanced  at  Mrs.  Blake. 

*  Wotever  is  ut  ? '  she  said. 

She  obtained  no  reply.  Mrs.  Blake  was  entirely  concentrated 
upon  the  toast,  which  seemed,  from  the  moment  of  its  advent, 
to  exercise  a  species  of  awful  fascination  over  her.  She  looked 
at  it  from  various  angles,  and  each  glance  appeared  to  deepen 
the  impression  which  it  had  made  upon  her.  Of  the  nature  of 
that  impression  there  could  scarcely  be  any  doubt.  Even  the 
girl  was  struck  and  slightly  awed  by  her  demeanour. 

'Wot's  wrong?'  inquired  the  girl,  again  protruding  her  tongue 
and  beginning  to  squint. 

Mrs.  Blake  diminished  the  size  of  her  mouth  till  that  feature 
was  infinitesimal. 

'  Ain't  I  cut  ut  right  ? '  continued  the  girl.     '  Don't  ut  do  ? ' 

'  It  '11  have  to  do,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  with  an  awful  look  at  the 
girl. 

'  Well,  that 's  'ow  I  always  cuts  ut,'  said  the  girl,  with  a  certain 
doggedness. 

'  I  dessay,'  rejoined  Mrs.  Blake,  in  a  thin  voice.     'I  dessay.' 

*  'Ow  would  you  want  ut  ?  '  continued  the  girl,  squinting  more 
than  ever.     '  Would  you  'ave  ut  cut  round  ? ' 

'  Never  mind,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  looking  at  Hal  as  if  to  draw 
his  attention  to  her  Christianity.  '  It  don't  matter  how  I  'd  have 
it.     It  don't  matter  at  all.' 

'Oh,  very  well,'  said  the  girl  sulkily.  'I'm  sure  some's 
diflficult  to  please.' 

She  turned,  and  went  out  sneezing. 

When  the  door  was  shut  Mrs.  Blake  handed  the  toast  to 
Felix,  who  took  two  slices  with  a  deliberate,  and  perhaps  slightly 
forced  air  of  satisfaction. 


176  fp:lix 

'Why,  Mrs.  Blake,'  he  said,  'I'm  sure  it's  very  good.  After 
all,  whatever  way  it 's  cut  it  tastes  the  same,  doesn't  it  ? ' 

But  here  Hal  interposed  with  an  air  of  conviction. 

'The  missus  is  right,  guv'nor,'  he  said.  'There  is  things  as 
they  don't  know  in  London.     It  should  be  cut  in  rounds.' 

This  definite  backing-up  of  her  opinion  had  a  mollifying  effect 
upon  Mrs.  Blake,  and  conversation  became  slightly  easier. 
Felix  asked  after  the  two  children,  and  was  told  that  they  were 
asleep  in  the  next  room. 

'You  see,  guv'nor,'  explained  Hal,  'my  coming  back  of  a 
night  disturbs  'em.  They  can't  make  out  what  Daddy's  up  to. 
At  Dover  me  and  the  missus  was  mostly  abed  come  nine.' 

'  And  now  if  you  don't  have  to  start  out  come  ten,'  said  Mrs. 
Blake  with  a  sniff.     '  Nice  hours  they  keep  in  London.' 

This  remark  led  to  a  more  open  discussion  of  the  metropolis, 
and  drew  from  Mrs.  Blake  some  expression  of  her  fears  for  Hal 
in  his  new  profession. 

'  It 's  the  drink  I  'm  afraid  of,  sir,'  she  explained  frankly  to  Felix. 

'  Now,  Anne,'  said  her  husband,  '  you  know  I  never  take  a 
glass  too  much.' 

'Not  yet  you  don't,  Hal,'  she  assented.  '  I  know  that.  But 
who's  to  say  you  never  will,  with  one  wanting  you  to  take  a 
glass  here  and  another  there.  You  say  yourself  as  it 's  drink, 
drink,  drink  at  the  Halls,  and  every  feller  there  ready  to  treat 
you  if  you  but  say  the  word.' 

'Ah,  but  I  don't  never  say  the  word.' 

'  Not  yet  you  don't,'  said  Mrs.  Blake,  with  significance. 

She  was  evidently  by  nature  an  anxious  little  body,  who  had 
been  thrown  into  a  permanent  condition  of  acute  uneasiness 
by  the  abrupt  change  in  her  husband's  fortunes.  Felix,  who 
honestly  felt  sure  that  her  fears  were  groundless,  strove  to 
reassure  her,  and  even  told  her  of  his  mother's  fears  for  him. 

'You  know,  Mrs.  Blake,'  he  said,  'your  husband  and  I  came 
up  to  London  nearly  at  the  same  time.' 

'  You  're  not  at  the  Halls,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Bkke.     '  Are  you  ?  ' 

Felix  could  not  help  smiling. 

'No.  But  I'm  certain  there's  no  more  danger  for  him  in 
London  than  there  is  for  me.  We'll  both  make  our  fortunes, 
and  th-'n  my  mother  and  you  will  be  obliged  to  own  that  you 
needn't  have  been  so  anxious  about  us.' 

He  spoke  cheerfully,  but  at  that  moment  he  was  secretly 
envying  Hal,  who  had  a  position,  a  profession,  success,  all  that 
tends  to  make  a  man  at  home  in  a  great  city.  Then  he  got  up 
to  go. 


FELIX  177 

'Oh,  I'm  sure,  sir,'  said  Mrs.  Blake  respectfully,  'for  a 
gentleman  like  you  London  is  the  proper  place.  I  hope  you 
don't  think  as  I ' 

*  No,  no.  But  I  'd  answer  for  your  husband  as  I  would  for 
myself.     And  I  hope  he  'd  do  the  same  for  me.' 

Hal  looked  quietly  gratified. 

'  The  missus  '11  settle  down  all  right  presently,'  he  said. 

He  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  Felix  had  called,  and  added  : 

'Miss  your  kitchen,  don't  you,  missus?' 

Mrs.  Blake  looked  down  and  twisted  the  front  of  the  merino 
dress  between  her  fingers.  Her  pointed  features  began  sud- 
denly to  work.  Felix  hastily,  but  with  warm  cordiality,  bade 
her  good-bye,  and  promised  to  call  again.  He  felt  his  sympathy 
with  her  deepen.  Standing  there  in  the  ugly  room,  which 
symbolised  her  rise  in  the  world,  but  which  she  evidently 
regarded  with  wonder  and  alarm,  she  looked  very  forlorn.  The 
fact  that  she  had  on  her  best  gown  intensified  the  little  tragedy. 
A  tear  fell  on  her  thin  cheek  as  she  dropped  her  small,  respect- 
ful courtesy. 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  she  murmured. 

Hal  escorted  Felix  to  the  door.     He  was  evidently  concerned. 

'  She  don't  cotton  to  London,  guv'nor,  and  that's  the  truth,' 
he  said.  '  Even  the  ten  quid  a  week  don't  seem  to  make  it  up 
to  'er  for  leaving  Dover.  You  see,  she  was  born  and  bred 
there.  She  'd  rather  have  me  back  at  the  harbour  and  lose  the 
money,  I  do  b'lieve — funny,  guv'nor,  ain't  it  ?  ' 

As  Felix  walked  away  he  was  conscious  that  Hal's  final  remark 
accurately  summed  up  a  good  many  situations.  When  he 
reached  home  he  found  a  letter  lying  upon  his  table.  The 
envelope  was  covered  with  spots  of  ink.  He  opened  it  and  saw 
Mrs.  Ismey's  name  at  the  end.  The  letter  was  an  invitation  to 
dinner. 

'  Dear  Mr.  Wilding, — I  have  a  kind  of  intuition  that  you 
may  call  to-day,  but  in  case  you  don't,  and  to  be  properly 
formal,  I  send  this  to  tell  you  that  my  husband  and  I  hope  you 
will  come  and  dine  next  Saturday  at  eight.  Mr.  Marshall,  the 
novelist,  is  coming,  and  one  or  two  others.  Whnt  do  you  say? 
You  see,  my  husband  isn't  mortally  offended  by  your  refusal  to 
become  office-boy! — Yours  very  sincerely,       Valeria  Ismev. 

'  J^.S.—I  love  driving  at  night  with  the  right  person.' 

Felix  flushed  as  he  finished  reading  the  note.  He  laid  it 
down.     Then  he  took  it  up  again,  and  sat  for  a   long    time 

M 


178  FELIX 

holding  it  in  his  hand.  The  writing  was  extraordinary.  At  first 
he  thought  that  it  was  Uke  the  caligraphy  of  some  one  who  had 
written  in  sleep  as  people  talk  in  sleep.  The  lines  were  uneven. 
Some  sloped  up,  some  down.  Several  words  were  illegible. 
He  guessed  what  they  were  from  the  context.  The  half-formed, 
straggling  letters  suggested  terrible  weakness,  weariness.  There 
were  many  ugly  smears  of  ink  too.  He  remembered  the  tramp 
table  in  Mrs.  Ismey's  pretty  drawing-room.  This  note  must 
have  been  written  on  it.  But  that  table  and  this  infirm  writing, 
disfigured  by  black  stains,  seemed  so  unlike  her  that  he  imagined 
her  dictating  the  note  to  some  half-tipsy  amanuensis. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  nocturnal  visit  to  Wigmore  Street, 
and  was  filled  once  more  with  a  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

FELIX  had  thought  of  going  home  to  Churston  Waters 
that  week  from  Saturday  to  Monday.  Mrs.  Ismey's  note 
drove  the  idea  away  at  once.  He  wrote  an  acceptance  of 
the  invitation,  and  then  once  more  went  out,  simply  because 
he  felt  utterly  restless.  That  peculiar^  uneasy  desire  for  per- 
petual movement  which  invades  so  many  souls  in  great  towns, 
and  which  is  so  painful  because  it  is  so  objectless,  was  beginning 
to  steal  through  him.  It  was  a  very  black  evening,  still  and 
sombre,  and,  as  he  walked,  loneliness  seemed  to  close  in  on 
him  like  darkness  on  waste  land.  A  fierce  longing  seized  him 
to  have  some  occupation  in  this  mighty  city  seething  with 
occupations,  to  have  some  task,  however  hard,  however  fatigu- 
ing, to  which  he  would  go  each  day,  to  which  he  would  be 
obliged  to  devote  that  energy  of  youth  which  was  gathering  in 
him,  was  rising  like  water  behind  a  dam.  The  omnibuses 
rolled  by.  They  were  crowded  with  workers  going  home  to 
their  earned  rest :  with  tired  clerks  and  city  men,  with  plainly 
dressed  girls  and  women  who  gained  their  livelihood  by  their 
own  efforts.  The  sight  of  those  working  women  made  Felix 
feel  ashamed,  effeminate,  unworthy,  and  undignified.  God  had 
not  given  to  him  the  temperament  of  the  idler.  Suddenly  he 
knew  that,  knew  it  so  absolutely  that  his  heart  cried  out  to  him 
against  his  life,  and  grew  sick  within  him  at  the  thought  of  its 
continuance.  Mr.  Isiney  was  right.  Work  is  a  guardi;in  angel. 
Work  turns  the  wilderness  into  a  garden.  Work  sometimes 
does  what  even  love  cannot  do,  rof)ts  a  man  firmly  in  his  place 
in  the  world,  and  gives  him  the  blessed  sensation:  'This  plot 
of  ground  in  the  wide  immensity  of  earth  was  meant  for  me  to 
grow  in.' 

To-night  Felix  wanted  to  take  root,  to  grow.  The  desolation 
of  his  idleness  tortured  him,  as  he  walked  onwaid  in  the  dark 
among  the  crowd  of  the  workers,  who  had  finished  their  long 
day  of  energy  and  were  looking,  as  tliey  had  a  right  to  look, 
gladly  towards  their  rest. 

Without  being  conscious  of  the  direction  in  which  he  was 

179 


180  FELIX 

going,  he  had  nearly  reached  the  Wellington  Club  when  a  smart 
young  man,  who  had  just  comt;  out  uf  it,  looked  at  him  ca.^ually, 
stared  at  him  more  closely,  then  hurried  up  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

'  Wilding  !     I  say,  Wilding ! ' 

Felix  stopped,  startled.  He  stared  at  the  young  man,  and 
was  transported  to  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  for  it  was  Hugo 
Arliss,  one  of  the  two  boys  who  had  come  out  to  learn  French, 
and  had  departed  to  go  to  Scoones.     Felix  felt  glad. 

Arliss  had  developed.  He  looked  quite  inordinately  fashion- 
able, and  had,  Felix  thought,  the  air  of  a  completed  man  of  the 
world  as  he  stood  there  on  the  pavement. 

*  Who  'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  ?  '  he  said.  *  When  did 
you  come  up  ?  ' 

Felix  told  him. 

'  Oh,  you  're  quite  new  to  the  little  village,  then ! ' 

'Yes,'  Felix  said,  feeling  very  new. 

'Like  it?' 

If  Felix  had  put  the  question  to  himself  a  minute  before  he 
would  probably  have  told  himself,  in  answer,  that  London  was 
a  sad,  dreary  city  and  that  he  hated  it.  Contact  with  a  friend — • 
Arliss  was  a  friend  at  this  moment,  very  much  a  friend — had 
transformed  it  in  an  instant. 

'  Yes,'  he  answered.    '  Don't  you  ? ' 

'  Rather !  I  '11  walk  your  way.  I  say,  where  do  you  hang 
out?' 

Felix  told  him. 

'I'm  in  Park  Place,  St.  James's.  Awfully  convenient.  It's 
jolly  lucky  for  us  that  our  people  don't  live  in  town.' 

'Why?'  Felix  asked. 

'Why?  Well,  old  chap,  you'll  know  before  you've  been 
long  in  this  blessed  village,  I  can  tell  you.  But  I  'm  not  going 
to  tarnish  your  innocence.' 

Felix  felt  that  his  question  had  been  wholly  unworthy  of  him 
and  of  the  Com'edie  Humame.     He  changed  the  subject  quickly. 

'  And  how  do  you  like  Scoones  ? ' 

'  I  've  never  been  there.' 

'  What ! '  said  Felix  in  amazement. 

'  No,  thought  better  of  it.  When  I  came  back  from  France 
I  met  a  pal  who  was  going  in  for  scribbling,  and  he  put  me  up 
to  a  much  better  thing.  You  know  at  Scoones  you  have  to 
work  a  good  bit.     Now  I  've  got  into  a  shop ' 

♦Shop!' 

*  Actor's  lingo,  old  boy  !     Translation — a  milieu,  where  I  'm 


FELIX  181 

settled  for  a  year,  so  as  not  to  frighten  my  people  with  the 
horrid  suspicion  that  I  'm  loose  on  the  town,  and  where  I  can 
work  or  not  just  as  I  like.     I  'm  a  sucking  Kipling  ! ' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  exclaimed  Felix.  '  Are  you  trying 
to  write  novels?  ' 

'Trying!  I  like  your  impudence.  No,  I 've  not  got  to  that 
yet  But  I  'm  at  a  school  of  journalism  learning  more  than  how 
to  spell,  I  can  tell  you.  Why  don't  you  join  the  merry  band, 
ten  till  four,  or  eleven  till  three,  or  twelve  till  one  if  you  prefer 
it?     Sam 's  not  particular.' 

'  Who  on  earth  is  Sam  ? ' 

'  Our  leader,  our  lecturer,  our  inspirer.  He  leads  us  in  the 
ways  of  Froude,  and  teaches  us  how  to  emulate  Macaulay. 
He  is  as  wise  as  a  nest  of  serpents,  and  as  harmless  as  an  aviary 
of  doves.     And  his  coats  !     Gad,  you  should  see  his  coats  ! ' 

Felix  burst  out  laughing.  Arliss's  animal  spirits  were  infec- 
tious, and  the  idea  of  him  being  trained  for  authorship  as  a  colt 
is  trained  for  a  nervous  lady  to  ride  tickled  Felix's  sense  of 
humour. 

'  I  'm  sure  they  can't  fit  better  than  yours,'  he  said. 

Arliss  looked  frankly  delighted. 

'  You  think  so  ?  Well,  if  you  like  I  '11  introduce  you  to  my 
man.     He'll  take  you.' 

♦  Take  me  ? ' 

'Yes,  because  your  figure's  all  right.  He  won't  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  a  narrow  chest  or  round  shoulders.  I  know  a 
fellow  who  's  at  Sandow's  school  in  Ebury  Street  training  for  all 
he  's  worth  to  get  into  Hollamby's  good  graces.' 

'  But  about  this  other  school?'  said  Felix. 

A  hai)py  thought  had  darted  into  his  mind.  He  fancied  he 
saw  a  way  of  salvation  by  walking  in  which  he  might  escape 
from  the  dreary  waste  in  which  at  present  he  found  himself. 

'Well — I  say,  what  are  you  doing  to-night?' 

*  Nothing.' 

'Then  come  and  dine  with  me  at  the  Bath  Club  at  half-past 
seven.     After  dinner  I  'm  obliged  to  work.' 

His  round,  rosy,  boyish  face  suddenly  assumed  a  grotesquely 
exaggerated  expression  of  earnest  and  depressed  gravity. 

'What,  you  work  at  night?'  cried  Felix  incredulously. 

Arliss  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

'Samuel  makes  me,  old  ruffian  !  And  to-night  it's  something 
specially  difficult.' 

'  Why,  what  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  've  got  to  spend  a  couple  of  hours  at  the  Pav.' 


182  FELIX 

'  The  Pav.  ? ' 

'  The  Pavilion  Music  Hall,  my  neophyte.  And  to-morrow  I 
have  to  enshrine  my  impressions  in  a  chatty,  bright  article  such 
as  would  rejoice  the  readers  of  the  Daily  Telegraph.  Beastly 
hard,  isn't  it?' 

Felix  laughed  again.  Arliss  echoed  him,  and  the  dinner  baigain 
was  struck  on  the  spot. 

When  Felix  was  once  more  alone,  he  began  eagerly  to  con- 
sider this  new  idea.  It  came  in  a  golden  light  to  him.  A  most 
beneficent  Providence  had  surely  brought  about  his  meeting 
with  Arliss  that  evening.  The  thought  of  work,  of  having  a 
place  to  go  to  each  morning,  an  end  in  view,  a  number  of  young 
companions  to  exchange  ideas  with  wrought  him  up  into  a  state 
of  enthusiasm.  London  suddenly  appeared  to  him  as  a  blessed, 
even  as  a  cosy  city.  He  looked  at  the  returning  crowds  of  the 
workers,  and  they  were  no  longer  people  apart  from  him,  to  be 
envied  from  afar,  but  his  brothers,  his  listers.  The  fact  that  he 
had  never  seen  Sam,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  his  qualifications 
to  be  a  guide  in  the  ways  of  literature,  of  his  honesty  of  purpose, 
or  indeed  anything  about  him  save  that  he  wore  wonderful  coais, 
did  not  trouble  Felix  at  all.  Sam  was  a  lifebuoy  flung  by  Arli.-^s 
to  him  alone  in  the  great  sea.  He  had  the  power  to  grasp  the 
lifebuoy,  and  he  meant  to  use  it. 

There  was  much  to  think  of  to-night.  He  hurried  home  to 
dress  for  dinner,  feeling  as  if  all  the  lives  in  life  were  seething, 
burning,  blossoming  in  his  one  body.  What  a  glorious  thing 
excitement  was,  and  such  a  sense  of  acute  vitality.  He  added 
more  fuel  to  the  furnace  of  his  desire  that  evening  with  the 
jovial  Arliss,  and  learnt  more  about  the  coats  of  the  inspiring 
Samuel.  The  next  morning,  at  about  twelve — having  already 
despatched  a  letter  to  his  mother  to  tell  her  of  his  new  project 
— he  went  by  the  underground  railway  to  the  Temple  Station, 
got  out  there,  and  in  five  minutes  was  standing  before  the  big 
building,  full  of  various  offices,  in  which  Mr.  Carringbridge 
instructed  his  pupils.  The  school  was  on  the  third  floor.  Felix 
went  up  in  a  lift,  which  was  controlled  by  a  very  impudent- 
looking,  and  exceedingly  fat  little  boy,  with  curly,  fair  hair,  who 
was  attired  in  a  blue  uniform,  and  who  hummed  continuously  as 
he  allowed  the  cord  to  quiver  between  his  dirty  fingers.  When 
the  lift  stopped,  he  gave  a  smirk,  and  pointed  down  a  corridor  to 
a  door,  half  of  which  was  ground  glass.  On  the  glass  was 
painted  in  huge  black  letters :  '  Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge's 
School  of  Journalism.'  Felix  wondered  what  the  fat  little  boy 
meant  by  the  smirk  as  he  walked  down  the  corridor.     When  he 


FELIX  183 

reached  the  door  he  knocked  on  the  wooden  n^argin  that  framed 
the  ground  glass.  He  i  card  a  huljbub  of  V(  ices  beyond,  and  a 
peal  of  laughter.  No  one  told  him  to  come  in,  so  he  knocked 
again  much  harder.     This  time  a  loud,  bass  voice  roared  out : 

'  Come  in  ! ' 

He  pushed  the  door,  and  found  himself  in  a  big  room,  furnished 
with  three  long  tables  and  a  qnr.ntit\  of  chairs,  on  which  were 
sitting  in  various  attitudes  of  meiry  idleness  several  young  men, 
who  all  stared  very  hard  at  him  as  he  entered.  Most  of  them 
were  smoking.  Several  had  pens  in  their  hands.  Felix  thought 
there  must  be  about  ten  of  them,  but  he  had  no  time  to  count, 
for  one  of  them,  a  youth  with  a  waxy  white  complexion  and 
sand-coloured  hair,  got  up  at  once  and  said  to  him  mellifiuously  : 

'Do  you  wish  to  see  Mr.  Carringbridge  ?' 

'Yes,  please,'  said  Felix. 

'  I  will  inquire  if  it  can  be  managed,'  said  the  youth  very 
gravely;  'if  you  can  put  up  with  my  leaving  you  for  just  one 
moment?' 

He  spoke  the  last  sentence  with  an  air  of  earnest  inquiry. 

'  Oh  yes,  I  can,  thanks,'  replied  Felix,  feeling  much  inclined 
to  laugh. 

'  And  if  you  don't  mind  using  another  person's  chair,  mine  is 
quite  at  your  service,'  added  the  youth  politely. 

As  he  said  the  last  words  he  lifted  up  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  just  risen  and  dropped  it  down  behin-d  Felix,  just  touch- 
ing his  calves. 

'  By  the  mere  depression  of  your  body  you  will  be  on  it  now,' 
he  remarked,  with  an  air  of  gentlemanly  and  quiet  satisfaction. 
Then  he  bowed,  and  walked  demurely  through  a  doorway,  that 
was  set  in  a  wooden  screen  some  six  and  a  half  feet  high  at  the 
left  angle  of  the  room.  1  his  screen  protected  a  door  on  which 
he  was  immediately  heard  to  knock. 

'  Come  in  ! '  called  a  very  suave,  sweet  voice. 

The  command  was  evidently  obeyed,  for  Felix  heard  a  soft 
murmur  of  two  voices.  He  had  sat  down  on  the  sandy  youth's 
chair,  and  looked  round  at  the  young  men,  who  were  now 
all  bending  over  sheets  of  foolscap,  and  were  either  writing 
busily  or  thinking  profoundly  with  pens  in  their  hands.  Hugo 
Arliss  was  not  among  them.  Perhaps  he  was  taking  a  holiday 
after  the  hard  work  of  the  previous  evening.  Felix  thought 
that  most  of  Mr.  Carringbridge's  pupils  looked  gentlemanly  and 
agreeable.  One,  however,  specially  attracted  his  attention,  not 
because  these  pleasant  qualities  seemed  to  attach  to  him.  This 
was  a  man  who  looked  about  forty,  with  an  extraordinary  face, 


184  FELIX 

very  dark  and  lined,  and  covered  with  bristling  whiskers  and 
moustaches  of  a  reddish-brown  hue,  which  contrasted  oddly  with 
the  black  hair  on  his  head.  His  nose  was  enormous,  and  the 
bony  structure  at  the  bridge  was  unusually  prominent.  He  had 
on  a  long,  black  frock-coat,  with  paper  protections  over  the 
sleeves,  and  was  writing  violently.  Just  in  front  of  him  on 
the  table  lay  two  tomatoes  and  a  small  open  box  of  chocolate 
creams.  While  Felix  was  observing  him  with  some  astonish- 
ment the  ultra-polite  youth  returned. 

'  Pray  step  in,'  lie  said.  '  Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge  is  most 
anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance.' 

Felix  saw  a  broad  smile  on  almost  every  face  in  the  room  as 
he  got  up  and  went  behind  the  screen.  And  this  plural  smile 
seemed  to  be  the  crescendo  of  the  fat  little  lift-boy's  smirk. 

Beyond  the  screen  was  a  most  co«;y  room,  not  very  large,  but 
very  well  furnished  and  full  of  books,  and  in  this  room,  with  his 
back  to  a  fire  and  an  immense  cigar  between  his  brilliantly  red 
lips,  Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge  was  standing  with  a  welcoming 
smile  upon  his  face.  The  whole  world  seemed  smiling  in  and 
around  this  school  of  journalism,  and  Felix  was  impelled  to  do 
the  same  without  exactly  knowing  why. 

Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge  was  a  magnificently  preserved  man 
of  about  fifty,  five  feet  five  inches  in  height,  with  beautiful, 
brilliant  dark  eyes,  exquisite  teeth,  a  lovely  complexion  like 
a  healthy  baby's  when  it  has  just  been  lifted  out  of  its  morning 
bath,  and  a  smile  that  made  one  think  of  a  plate-glass  window 
glittering  in  the  beams  of  the  sun — say  at  Brighton.  He  was 
very  well  made,  plump  and  gently  rounded,  but  far  from  fat. 
His  features  were  handsome.  His  nose  made  some  people 
think  that  there  might  possibly  be  a  Jewish  ancestor  somewhere 
in  his  family  tree.  His  hair  and  moustache  were  slightly  flecked 
with  grey,  and  the  ends  of  the  latter  were  deliciously  waxed,  and 
formed  two  tiny  points  almost  as  sharp  as  needles.  His  hands 
were  ivory  white  and  dimpled,  with  coral-coloured,  shining  nails  ; 
and  he  wore  the  most  perfectly  cut  grey  tail-coat,  the  most  deli- 
cately warm  buff  waistcoat,  the  most  shapely  grey  trousers,  and 
the  most  superbly  varnished  patent-leather  boots  Felix  had  ever 
seen  or  dreamed  of.  As  Felix  came  in  he  took  his  cigar  from 
his  lips,  blew  forth  a  little  ring  of  grey-blue  smoke,  that  har- 
monised admirably  with  the  colour  of  his  coat,  and  bowed. 

'  You  wish  to  see  me  ? '  he  said,  in  a  sweet,  purring,  and  very 
low  voice. 

*  Yes,  please.' 

Mr.  Carringbridge,  with  an  almost  catlike  delicacy  and  lithe- 


FELIX  185 

ness,  drew  a  most  tempting  armchair  forward  to  the  fire,  gently 
shut  the  door,  said  '  Pray  sit  down,'  and  immediately  sat  down 
himself  opposite  in  another  armchair,  placed  the  tips  of  his 
white  fingers  together,  looked  at  Felix  with  his  radiant  dark 
eyes  and  smiled  encouragingly. 

'  Mr.  Hugo  Arliss  told  me  about  your  school,'  Felix  began,  in 
an  usually  low  voice,  and  feeling  soothed  almost  as  if  by  a 
narcotic. 

'  Mr.  Arliss,  a  charming,  gentlemanly,  intelligent  fellow.  I 
am  very  attached  to  h-im,'  said  Mr.  Carringbridge,  aspirating 
the  *  h '  with  a  peculiar  precision,  as  if  he  knew  that  there  were 
in  the  world  barbarians  who  left  out  their  '  h's,'  and  was  deter- 
mined to  make  up  to  that  letter  for  their  neglect  so  far  as  it  lay 
in  his  power  to  do  so. 

'  I  met  him  in  France,'  said  Felix. 

'  Delicious  country,'  said  Mr.  Carringbridge  with  tender 
enthusiasm.     '  Do  you  speak  French  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'Ah,  what  an  advantage  to  you!  Every  one  should  speak 
French.  How  fortunate  for  you,  wonderfully  so  indeed  !  If 
you  were  a  journalist  you  would  be  a  blessing  to  Reuter.' 

Felix  began  to  feel  pleasantly  warm  and  self-contented. 

'Arliss  advised  me  to^to  see  if  I  could  enter  at  your  school 
for  a  year,'  he  said.     '  I  am  very  keen  on  trying  to  write.' 

'It  is  a  great  profession.  Tlie  journalist  is  a  power.  His 
name  may  not  be  on  the  lips  of  the  nations,  but  he  can  alter 
the  destinies  of  the  nations.  Ah  well,  I  must  not  let  my  en- 
thusiasm carry  me  too  far  into  the  Asiatic  realms  of  eulogy. 
You  know  my  terms?' 

Felix  jumped — the  last  sentence  came  with  such  mellifluous 
abruptness  from  Mr.  Carringbridge's  bright  red  lips. 

'No.     Arliss  didn't ' 

'  Dear  careless  fellow.  One  hundred  guineas,  payable  to  me 
on  the  day  I  sign  the  agreement.  You  merely  hand  me  your 
cheque  and  I  bind  myself  forthwith  to  give  you  the  advantage — 
if  it  be  one,  possibly  not!— of  my  personal  teaching  and  ex- 
perience for  one  whole  year,  and  to  allow  you  the  free  and 
unfettered  use  of  the  writing-hall  you  have  just  passed  through. 
I  also  give  you  ink ' 

A  generous  smile  illumined  his  face. 

'It's  awfully  good  of  you,'  Felix  had  murmured,  before  he 
knew  that  he  was  going  to  murmur  anything. 

'  But  not  pens  and  paper.  I  find  young  men  prefer  to  consult 
their  personal  taste  in  those  matters,  and  therefore  I  give  them 


186  FELIX 

free  scope.  About  ink  there  is  less  divergence  of  opinion,  and 
mine,  I  believe,  gives  general  satisfaction.  I  am  glad  if  it  is  so. 
I  never  drive  the  young.' 

'No?'  said  Felix. 

*  Never.  I  lead  them,  perhaps.  I  show  them  what  a  man 
can  do,  has  done.     You  see  the  volumes  on  that  table?' 

Mr.  Carringbridge  indicated  with  his  snowy  forefinger  an  oval 
table  of  walnut  wood,  upon  which  lay  a  number  of  very  large 
books  bound  in  red  leather. 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix. 

'  Those  contain  the  leading  articles  written  by  me  for  the 
Daily  Recorder  during  twenty-five  years  of  active  journalistic 
life.     My  pupils  can  read  them  at  any  time.' 

'  You  must  have  worked  tremendously  hard,'  said  Felix, 
counting  the  volumes. 

There  were  eight  of  them,  and  they  were  tremendously  fat. 
He  felt  almost  awe-stricken.  Mr.  Carringbridge  indulged  him- 
self and  Felix  in  a  lotus-eating  smile. 

'  I  have  been  through  the  mill,'  he  replied  lazily.  '  I  have 
seen,  known,  handled  life  myself,  and  have  presented  it  to 
others  in  a  series  of  pictures  glowing,  I  hope,  with  actuality. 
Life,  I  suppose,  has  few  secrets  from  me.' 

An  expression  of  serene  innocence  had  stolen  into  his  face. 
Felix  now  began  to  notice  a  very  characteristic  habit  of  his,  a 
habit  of  apparently  contradicting  his  words  by  his  looks.  If  he 
spoke  of  energy  he  usually  looked  lethargic.  If  he  talked  of 
life  having  no  secrets  from  him,  his  eyes  became  like  those  of 
an  ignorant  saint. 

'  If  my  pupils  like  to  take  me  as  an  example  they  would  do 
well  to  follow,'  he  continued,  '  they  can.  I  come  up  from 
Brighton  every  day  by  the  nine  o'clock  train.  But  I  never 
drive  them.  I  trust  them.  I  rely  on  them.  I  give  them  com- 
plete liberty.     When  do  you  propose  to  come?' 

Again  Felix  jumped.  Mr.  Carringbridge's  transitions  were 
abrupt,  and  seemed  to  be  emph.ipi-ed  by  the  fact  that  the  purr- 
ing sweetness  of  his  voice  did  not  alter  when  he  changed  the 
topic  of  discussion. 

'  Oh,  I  thought  at  once,'  Felix  said. 

'You  have  your  cheque-book  with  you?' 

'Oh  no.' 

'  If  you  like  to  hand  me  a  cheque  to-morrow  morning  you 
can  enroll  yourself  among  my  pupils  to-morrow  morning. 
Here  is  my  prospectus ' — he  handed  a  paper  languidly  to  Felix 
— '  study  it  if  you  like.     Everything  that  is  stated  there  is  youri 


FELIX  187 

for  one  year  for  one  hundred  guineas.  I  sit  here  during  each 
day  at  the  absolute  dispcsal  of  my  pupils.  They  are  at  liberty 
to  come  in— after  knocking — at  any  and  at  every  moment.  My 
only  wish  is  to  serve  them,  to  place  before  them,  if  so  desired, 
not  otherwise,  the  ripe  fruit  of  a  mind  stored  with  twenty-five 
years  of  experience.  But  I  do  not  force  them.  You  can  pay 
me  a  hundred  guineas,  sit  in  that  room  for  a  year,  and  only 
exchange  a  "good  morning"  with  me,  if  you  are  a  damned  fool.' 

He  cooed  the  concluding  words  and  got  up  softly. 

*  If  you  like  to  come  here  to-morrow  and  give  me  a  hundred 
guineas  you  will  find  me  sitting  here  quite  ready  to  receive 
them,'  he  said  kindly. 

'Thanks  very  much,'  Felix  said.     '  It 's  awfully  good  of  you.* 

'  Not  at  all.  And  if  you  prefer  to  stay  away,  I  wish  you  all 
success  and  happiness.' 

He  beamed  on  Felix  with  the  tenderest  cordiality,  clasped  his 
hand  with  fingers  as  soft  as  satin,  and  conducted  him  gently  to 
the  door.  Opening  it,  he  let  in  a  roar  of  conversation,  which 
abruptly  ceased  as  he  preceded  Felix  into  the  '  writing-hall.' 
There  he  once  more  pressed  his  hand  in  full  view  of  the  young 
men, 

'  Good-bye,  good-bye,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  said.  *  It  has  been 
a  great  pleasure  to  see  you  here.' 

'  Good-bye.     Thank  you  very  much,'  said  Felix. 

Mr.  Carringbridge  released  his  hand  and  he  made  his  way  out. 
As  he  pushed  the  farther  door  he  glanced  back,  and  saw  Mr. 
Carringbridge  standing  just  in  front  of  the  screen,  with  his  white 
hands  partially  inserted  in  the  pockets  of  his  lovely  grey  trousers, 
puffing  volumes  of  smoke  from  his  excellent  cigar,  and  smiling 
radiantly  as  his  lustrous  eyes  rested  upon  the  assemblage  of  his 
pupils,  who  were  all  bending  over  their  foolscap  most  busily  at 
work. 

The  two  tomatoes,  which  had  been  lying  on  the  table  in 
front  of  the  man  with  the  black  hair  and  the  brown  whiskers 
and  moustaches,  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    XV 

FELIX  was  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  whether  he  liked 
or  disliked  Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge,  but  he  was  quite 
decided  to  join  his  school,  and  directly  he  reached  home  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  second  urgent  letter  to  his  mother,  asking  her 
to  let  him  spend  a  hundred  guineas  of  the  money  which  would 
so  soon  be  his,  and  giving  her  an  animated  description  of  the 
advantages  he  would  be  certain  to  gain  by  being  with  a  man 
who  had  had  twenty-five  years'  experience  of  journalistic  life. 
At  the  end  of  the  letter  he  dwelt  diplomatically  on  the  amount 
of  work  he  meant  to  get  through  at  the  school,  and  the  nice- 
looking  set  of  fellows  there.  He  did  not  allude  to  the  individual 
with  the  tomatoes.  He  wound  up  by  begging  his  mother  to 
send  him  the  cheque  by  return  of  post,  so  that  he  might  enter 
upon  his  career  at  once.  He  went  out  and  dropped  the  letter 
into  the  box  himself,  and  then,  after  a  second  of  hesitation,  he 
entered  the  post-office  and  sent  the  following  wire : 

'Seen  Carringbridge  year  at  the  school  one  hundred  guineas 
only  if  can  send  at  once  can  start  to-morrow  Felix.' 

The  idea  of  spending  even  three  or  four  more  days  drifting 
idly  about  London  was  intolerable  to  him.  His  mother  would 
receive  his  first  letter  telling  her  of  his  meeting  with  Arliss  that 
afternoon  or  evening.  She  might  possibly  fall  in  at  once  with 
his  views.  If  so,  he  could  begin  work  to-morrow.  He  longed 
to.    He  felt  as  if  he  could  not  wait  even  for  a  moment. 

On  the  following  day  when  he  came  in  to  breakfast  he  found 
a  letter  from  his  mother  lying  on  the  table.  He  tore  it  open. 
A  cheque  for  a  hundred  guineas  dropped  out.  Felix  uttered  a 
joyous  exclamation.  His  future  was  settled.  His  desire  was 
satisfied.  With  radiant  eyes  he  began  to  read  the  letter.  It 
was  a  very  anxious  missive,  full  of  doubts  and  fears.  Mrs. 
Wilding  was  evidently  much  perplexed  and  undecided  as  to 
what  she  ought  to  do.  She  had  only  received  her  son's  first 
letter  and  telegram,  and  now  made  many  inquiries  about  Mr. 
Carringbridge.  Was  he  a  gentleman?  Did  he  seem  to  be  a 
good  man  ?     She  had  never  heard  of  him.     She  agreed  with 


FELIX  189 

Felix  that  it  was  far  better  for  him  to  have  some  regular  work, 
but  she  again  expressed  regret  at  his  having  refused  Mr.  Ismey's 
offer,  and  wondered  if  it  were  yet  too  late  to  ask  him  to  renew 
it.  She  ended  by  referring  to  Felix's  former  letter  begging  her 
to  trust  him,  and  said  that  of  course  she  did  so.  '  But,'  she 
added,  '  you  know,  Felix,  however  strong  we  may  think  ourselves 
we  are  all  easily  led  away  from  the  right  path.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  do  right  for  all  of  us.'  As  a  proof  that  she  did  rely  upon  her 
son  she  enclosed  the  cheque  he  asked  for,  but  urged  him  not 
to  spend  the  money  unless  he  felt  quite  certain  that  Mr. 
Carringbridge's  school  was  really  a  good  sort  of  place,  and  that 
his  pupils  were  desirable  acquaintances. 

'You  dear,  timid,  old  mater!'  Felix  said  to  himself  with  a 
gay  smile,  as  he  finished  reading  the  letter;  'how  Sam  would 
laugh  if  he  knew  how  frightened  you  are  of  his  influence  over 
your  little  boy.    As  if  he'd  have  any,  except  about  writing.' 

He  waited  impatiently  till  half-past  ten  o'clock,  and  then 
hurried  off  to  Ellbridge  Buildings,  as  the  huge  tenement  in 
which  Mr.  Carringbridge  had  set  up  his  school  was  called.  He 
carried  with  him  his  mother's  cheque,  a  packet  of  foolscap  paper, 
a  blotting-book,  and  a  quantity  of  quill  pens.  For  ink  he 
trusted,  as  he  knew  he  might,  to  the  generosity  of  the  master. 
The  same  fat  little  boy  whom  he  had  seen  on  the  occasion  of 
his  former  visit  took  him  up  in  the  lift.  This  time  Felix  thought 
he  looked,  if  possible,  more  impudent.  In  other  respects  he 
was  unchanged.  He  stared  with  his  bold  blue  eyes  at  the  brown 
paper  Felix  carried  and  said,  in  a  squeaky,  child's  voice : 

'  Come  to  stay,  'ave  yer  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix. 

The  fat  little  boy  chuckled. 

'Sam's  doing  jolly  well  this  term,'  he  remarked.  'I  *ope 
'e'll  give  me  a  better  Christmas-box  than  'e  give  me  last  year, 
that's  all.' 

And  he  let  Felix  out  with  a  hopeful  wink. 

When  Felix  reached  Mr.  Carringbridge's  door  he  pushed  it 
and  went  into  the  school  without  knocking.  He  found  only 
four  of  the  pupils  assembled.  The  man  with  black  hair  and 
brown  whiskers,  who  was,  as  before,  writing  furiously,  the  sandy 
youth,  a  tall,  thin  young  man  with  a  single  eyeglass,  very  smartly 
dressed,  and  Arliss.  The  latter  greeted  his  appearance  with  a 
sotto  voce  war-whoop,  sprang  up  from  the  end  of  the  table  where 
he  was  sitting,  and  wrung  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

'Come  to  sign,  seal,  and  deliver?'  he  cried. 

Felix  acknowledged  that  such  was  the  case. 


190  FELIX 

*  Capital ! '  said  Arliss.  '  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr. 
Singleton  and  Mr.  Harry  Cleave' — the  tall  young  man  and  the 
sandy  youth  nodded  politely — 'and  Mr.  Paul  Chalmers.' 

Felix  turned  towards  the  man  who  was  writing  furiously,  but 
received  no  recognition. 

'He's  too  inspired  to  notice  you,'  said  Arliss.  'Now  if  you 
were  a  tomato ' 

At  this  moment  the  click  of  an  opening  door  was  audible. 
Mr.  Singleton  and  Mr.  Harry  Cleave  grasped  their  pens,  and 
Arliss  moved  swiftly  towards  the  wooden  screen,  reaching  it 
exactly  as  Mr.  Carringbridge  emerged,  exquisitely  dressed  in  a 
delicate  brown  frock-coat  and  trousers,  a  pale  pearl- coloured 
waistcoat,  and  the  most  elaborate  brown-satin  cravat  Felix  had 
ever  seen.  He  was,  as  usual,  puffing  at  an  excellent  Havana, 
and  carried  in  one  white  hand  some  sheets  of  much-blotted  and 
corrected  manuscript. 

'  I  was  just  coming  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Wilding  wished  to  see 
you,  sir,'  said  Arliss. 

A  radiant  smile  illuminated  Mr.  Carringbridge's  handsome  face. 

'I  am  delighted  to  see  h-im,'  he  said,  extending  his  hand  and 
pressing  Felix's  tenderly.  'One  moment.  Mr.  Chalmers — 
Mr.  Chalmers!' 

He  slightly  raised  his  voice,  but  still  kept  it  very  sweet. 

Mr.  Chalmers  looked  up  from  his  writing  in  a  manner  that 
was  half  dazed,  half  frenzied.  Mr.  Carringbridge  beamed  at 
him  and  handed  him  the  blotted  manuscript. 

'It  is  very  clever,  Mr.  Chalmers,'  he  said,  with  pearly  dis- 
tinctness, 'very  clever  and  subtle  indeed,  but  it  is  not  suffi- 
ciently actual.  When  I  said  '  Write  upon  the  morals  of  Babylon ' 
I  did  not  mean  the  Babylon  of  Semiramis  but  the  Babylon  of 
John  Bull.  The  latter  is  of  immediate,  the  former  merely  of 
archaic  interest.     We  must  not  be  archaic  h-ere.' 

He  gazed  upon  his  pupils,  as  if  to  impress  this  important 
fact  smilingly  upon  them,  then  he  added  : 

'  But  it  is  very  clever,  Mr.  Chalmers.  It  shows  great  dili- 
gence. We  will  talk  it  over  thoroughly  after  lunch.  Now, 
Mr.  Wilding,  if  you  please.' 

And  while  Mr.  Chalmers  stared  at  him  with  dazed  and 
violent  eyes  he  turned  gently  round  to  escort  Felix  to  the  inner 
chamber.     When  they  reached  it  he  said  : 

'  A  very  persevering  man  Mr.  Chalmers.  He  was  a  piano- 
tuner.' 

'  What ! '  said  Felix,  with  difficulty  repressing  an  inclination 
to  laugh. 


,FELIX  191 

*  A  piano-tuner,  but  was  left  what  he  names,  I  think,  "a  little 
windfall"  by  an  Australian  aunt,  and  now  proposes  to  take 
to  literature.  Well,  I  shall  not  prevent  him.  His  industry  is 
an  example  to  us  all.     Sit  down,  my  dear  Mr.  Wilding.' 

Felix  sat  down  and  at  once  drew  out  his  mother's  cheque 
and  laid  it  upon  Mr.  Carringbridge's  table. 

*I — I  came  to  bring  you  that,'  he  said,  reddening  slightly, 
and  feeling  em'-arrassed,  as  he  always  did  when  he  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  money  matters. 

Mr.  Carringbridge  took  up  the  cheque  and  examined  it  with 
the  most  serene  complacency. 

'You  have  made  your  decision.  Ah!  May  I  ask  whose 
signature  this  is?' 

'  My  mother's,  said  Felix. 

'  You  have  your  mother  still !     A  merciful  thing  for  you.' 

He  spoke  rather  abstractedly,  while  he  folded  up  the  cheque 
and  put  it  into  a  crocodile-skin  cse  edged  with  silver  which  he 
drew  from  an  inner  pocket.  Then,  with  a  sudden  but  always 
suave  decision,  he  said  : 

'  We  will  complete  the  agreement  at  once.  Will  you  kindly 
read  this  while  I  call  Mr.  Arliss.' 

He  lianded  to  Felix  a  document  printed  on  stiff  parchment- 
like p:iper,  and,  getting  up,  moved  quietly  to  the  door.  Felix 
glanced  hastily  over  the  document,  which  set  forth  thnt  Mr. 
Samuel  Cariingbridge  having  duly  received  from — here  there 
was  a  blank  for  a  name — the  sum  of  one  hundred  and  five 
pounds  bound  himself  for  the  space  of  one  year  from — a  blank 
for  a  date — to  teach  and  instruct  the  said — to  the  best  of  his, 
Mr.  Carringbridge's,  ability,  in  all  the  elements  of  journalism. 
What  these  elements  were  was  then  set  forth.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  rigmarole  was  a  place  for  the  signature  of  Mr. 
Carringbridge  and  a  witness.  Mr.  Carringbridge,  returning 
followed  by  Arliss,  promptly  signed  his  name  in  a  bold,  cltar, 
flowing  hand.  Arliss  signed  his  below.  The  blanks  in  the 
document  were  filled  up,  and  in  about  a  couple  of  minutes  it 
was  tenderly  handed  to  Felix  by  Mr.  Carringbridge,  with  a 
happy  smile  and  the  purred  remark  : 

'  You  are  now  a  member  of  my  school.' 

'Thank  you  very  much,'  said  Felix. 

Arliss  had  returned  to  the  outer  room  and  Felix  stood  by  the 
table,  wondering  what  he  was  expected  to  do.  He  looked  at 
Sam — he  was  Sam  to  Felix  now,  henceforth  and  for  evermore — 
an  1  Sam  looked  at  him. 

'Can   I  do  anything  more  for  you,  Mr.  Wilding?'  he  said. 


192  FELIX 

*You  know  you  have  only  to  command  me.     I  come  up  here 

every  day  from  Brighton  simply  and  solely  to  place  myself  at 
the  disposal  of  my  pupils.' 

'Well,  I — would  you  mind  just  explaining  to  me  a  little  what 
sort  of  thing  I  had  better  begin  with?'  said  Felix,  wondering 
how  much  initiative  he  ought  to  display  in  these,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  very  peculiar  circumstances. 

'You  wish  me  to  put  you  au  coiiranfi  Sit  down,  my  dear 
Mr.  Wilding.     Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  chat  together.' 

He  closed  the  door  with  an  air  of  comfortable  satisfaction, 
and  sank  down  in  his  chair  as  if  he  had  at  length  reached  a 
moment  of  life  for  which  he  had  long  been  earnestly  hoping. 
Blowing  forth  a  cloud  of  cigar  smoke,  from  which  his  beautiful 
eves  and  rose-coloured,  smooth  cheeks  presently  emerged  as  the 
sun  emerges  from  behind  a  mist  most  softly  beaming,  he  began  to 
speak  in  a  clear  voice,  with  a  delicate  and  yet  animated  precision. 

'The  journalism  of  to-day,  when  it  is  worth  tuppence-half- 
penny—sometimes, I  regret  to  say,  it  is  not  worth  that  sum — 
is  either  a  brilliant  revelation  to  the  public  of  the  actual,  or  an 
ingenious  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  the  masses.  In  order  to 
be  a  successful  journalist,  Mr.  Wilding,  you  must  either  be  an 
observant  person  or  an  accomplished  liar.  I  advise  you  to 
make  up  your  mind  as  soon  as  possible  which  you  mean  to  be. 
I  was  both,  and  for  some  years  made  two  thousand  per  annum. 
But  the  effort  to  be  both  is  too  great  for  many  people,  and, 
therefore,  I  usually  advise  my  pupils  to  make  a  choice. 
Mr.  Chalmers  has  chosen  to  be  an  observant  person,  and  I 
am  at  present  engaged  in  endeavouring — I  hope  with  moderate 
success — to  train  him  to  see  what  comes  within  the  range  of 
his  vision.  He  goes  to  the  Law  Courts,  to  Madame  Tussaud's, 
to  the  Park,  to  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane,  to  Piccadilly  Circus, 
and  records,  or  tries  to  record,  what  he  sees  in  these  great 
centres  of  legal,  Sunday-school,  fashionable,  popular,  and 
vicious  Hfe.  The  clever  journalist  must  know  how  to  play 
upon  the  fears  of  his  country.  Try  to  learn  how  to  frighten 
people,  and  your  editors  will  cherish  you.  The  alarmist  earns 
a  big  salary  nowadays.  I  know  a  man  who  has  made  many 
hundreds  of  pounds  by  writing  about  the  downfall  of  England. 
The  downfall  of  England  is  his  speciality  ;  but  I  do  not  re- 
commend my  pupils  to  specialise  while  they  are  with  me.  At 
the  beginning  of  your  career  learn  to  range  freely  over  life. 
Study  every  kind  of  life.  Go  into  the  palace,  if  you  can  gain 
admittance — it  is  your  business  to  gain  admittance  into  im- 
possible places — go  into  the  butcher's  shop.      Wherever  you 


FELIX  193 

are,  whatever  you  are  doing,  be  on  the  watch.  If  you  are  being 
thrashed — which  Heaven  forbid  !— study  your  sensations.  What 
is  pain?  What  is  humihation?  What  is  cowardice?  If  you 
are  being  embraced,  I  advise  a  precisely  similar  mental  attitude. 
What  is  affection?  Why  does  the  meeting  of  lips  give  pleasure? 
What  is  pleasure?  Analyse — analyse  every  one  and  every  thing 
that  comes  within  your  purview.  Analyse  the  girl  you  are 
making  love  to.  Analyse  yourself.  Analyse  me.  Try  to  be 
pictorial  and  vivid  in  your  writing.  Choose  striking  forms  of 
expression.  Never  be  tame.  In  journalism  it  is  not  a  crime  to 
be  vulgar.  Far  from  it.  But  to  be  tame  is  a  crime.  Nobody 
ever  earned  a  good  income  in  journalism  by  being  tame.  The 
journalist  must  know  how  to  be  sensational.  If  he  does  not, 
he  will  only  earn  a  comparatively  small  sum.  Modern  papers 
live  greatly  by  their  sensationalism.  And  by  sensationalism 
I  do  not  merely  mean  blazing  accounts  of  murder,  arson,  rape, 
and  robbery.  Many  religious  papers  exist  by  being  sensational 
about  ritualism,  bishops,  the  supposed  spread  of  atheism,  and 
the  machinations — also  very  often  supposed — of  the  Jesuits. 
Others  thrive  on  the  manufacture  of  political  sensations. 
Others  exploit  literature  and  so  forth.  There  are  many  fish 
in  the  sensationalist's  net.  I  could  be  sensational  upon  any 
subject,  as  you  will  see  if  you  care  to  glance  at  my  articles. 
Foment  the  public  passions,  then  lull  them  to  rest.  If  you 
read  the  most  successful  newspapers  you  will  find  that  they  are 
continually  engaged  in  these  two  processes.  Why?  Because 
the  public  likes  it.  It  is  agreeable  to  the  public  to  be  first 
righteously  angry  and  then  righteously  good-tempered.  The 
first  causes  it  to  feel  virile,  the  second  saintly.  Be  an  oppor- 
tunist. The  journalist  need  have  no  convictions,  but  he  must 
seem  to  be  made  of  nothing  else.  You  need  never  be  sincere, 
but  you  should  always  write  as  if  you  were.  The  art  of 
journalism  is  like  the  art  of  acting.  It  is  the  art  of  successful 
simulation.  Its  tears  are  such  as  flow  at  the  behest  of  a 
vegetable  which  I  need  not  mention.  Such  tears  make,  as  a 
rule,  quite  as  much  effect  on  the  public  as  those  caused  by 
genuine  sorrow.  The  public  likes  humbug.  Every  editor  who 
is  worth  his  salt  is  aware  of  this  great  fact.  Give  the  public 
what  it  likes;  humbug,  Mr.  Wilding,  humbug,  ionjours  humbug. 
But  be  very  careful  to  choose  the  humbug  that  is  popular  at  the 
moment.  Sometimes  it  is  the  humbug  of  jingoism.  Sometimes 
it  IS  the  humbug  of  commercialism.  Sometimes  it  is  religious 
humbug.  Sometimes  it  is  the  humbug  of  England's  mission  of 
spreading  light  in  the  world.  Sometimes  it  is  the  humbug  of 
N 


19 1  FELIX 

some  fat  moral  idea,  some  round  O  of  virtue.  Study  the  art  of 
humbug  in  the  speeches  of  our  great  pohtical  leaders.  They 
will  be  your  best  guides  in  that  direction.  Learn  how  to 
utilise  the  pathetic  stop  on  the  organ  of  journalism.  The 
public  is  never  so  happy  as  when  it  is  being  sentimental.  For 
this  reason  it  enjoys  reading  florid  accounts  of  starvation 
towards  Christmastide.  That  is  a  great  yjart  of  its  notion  of 
that  splendid  piece  of  humbug  "  A  Merry  Christmas."  Therefore 
mix  a  certain  amount  of  wretchedness  with  your  geniality  from 
time  to  time.  Cultivate  a  literary  love  of  sport ;  there  is  a 
legend  that  we  are  the  only  sporting  nation.  Always  respect  a 
legend.  You  need  not  respect  much  else.  Read  Froude,  read 
Macaulay,  read  me.' 

Here  Mr.  Carringbridge,  who  had  been  speaking  with  extreme 
rapidity,  but  pellucid  distinctness,  paused  and  smiled  gently  and 
confidingly  at  Felix,  who  sat  almost  hypnotised  by  his  wondrous 
flow  of  words. 

'Do  you  wish  to  ask  me  anything?'  he  said  softly.  'Can 
I  make  any  point  more  clear  to  you  ? ' 

'  Oh,  thank  you.     No,  I  think  it 's  all  quite  clear,'  replied  Felix. 

*Be  light,  be  bright,  be  forcible,  be  fiery.  Do  you  know 
many  women  ? ' 

The  question  was  very  suave. 

'Not  many  in  London,'  said  Felix. 

'  Get  to.  Women  are  by  nature  humbugs,  and  very  accom- 
plished ones.  They  can  teach  you  much.  You  cannot  begin 
to  study  women  too  early.  The  journalist  must  know  women. 
Now,  would  you  like  to  write  an  article?  I  don't  press  it,  mind. 
You  can  go  into  the  next  room,  if  you  like,  and  sit  there  for  a 
year  without  writing  one  word.' 

*Oh,  but  please  I  wish  to  work.' 

'Then  I  shall  not  prevent  you.  Go  into  the  next  room  then, 
my  dear  Mr.  Wilding,  and  write  me  an  article  upon  the 
"Blessings  of  Humbug."  Make  it  fifteen  hundred  words  in 
length.  Divide  it  into  three  parts.  Let  me  have  an  opening 
on  humbti  in  general,  a  middle  on  special  forms  of  humbug, 
and  a  su  nming-up  on  the  advantages  accruing  to  humanity  in 
the  mass  ^rom  the  practice  of  humbug  in  all  its  various  forms. 
Au  revoii  ' 

He  stretched  out  a  white  hand,  picked  up  Truth,  and  Felix 
left  the  room. 

When  he  reached  the  '  writing-hall '  he  found  that  four  or 
five  more  pupils  had  arrived,  and  were  busily  engaged  in 
smoking,   talking,   and    reading    the    daily    papers.      He   was 


FELIX  195 

cordially  greeted  by  those  whom  he  knew,  and  introduced  to 
those  whom  he  did  not  know.  Then  Arliss  showed  him  a 
place  where  he  could  sit,  and  he  unpacked  his  parcel  of  writing 
materials. 

'Whew!'  said  Arliss.     '  Going  to  grind?' 

Felix  laughed.  The  idea  of  grinding  in  such  an  atmosphere 
of  cheerful  idleness  seemed  sufficiently  absurd. 

'  I  don't  know  about  grinding,'  he  said.  '  But  I  suppose  I 
must  do  something.  Besides,  Sam 's  told  me  to  write  an 
article.' 

Mr.  Harry  Cleave  showed  the  most  sympathetic  interest. 

'What  on?'  he  inquired  seriously,  sitting  down  on  the  table 
by  Felix's  inkpot,  and  lighting  a  cigarette.     'Women?' 

'No ;  humbug.' 

'  The  same  thing,'  murmured  Mr.  Cleave,  in  the  midst  of  a 
roar  of  laughter  from  the  other  pupils. 

'  Good  old  Sam  ! '  exclaimed  Arliss.  '  Don't  I  know  ?  The 
blessings  of  humbug.  Three  parts:  the  general,  the  particular, 
the  peroration,  fifteen  hundred  words.  Glorious!  we've  all 
done  it.  But  I  say,  Wilding,  you  can't  begin  now.  It 's  lunch- 
time.' 

'  What,  already  ? '  said  Felix. 

'The  Law  Courts'  clock  has  struck  one,'  said  Mr.  Singleton, 
screwing  his  eyeglass  into  his  left  eye,  and  beginning  to  look 
hungry. 

'  And  here 's  Samuel,'  added  Cleave.     '  Hush  ! ' 

The  door  clicked  and  Mr.  Carringbridge  appeared,  crowned 
with  a  shining  top-hat,  and  carrying  in  his  hands,  now  clothed 
in  pale-brown  subde  gloves,  a  gold-headed  cane  and  a  fresh 
cigar.  He  beamed  on  his  pupils,  and  went  smoothly  out 
without  saying  a  word. 

'He's  gone  to  the  Savage,'  said  Arliss.  'Come  on.  Wilding. 
Come,  Singleton.' 

He  caught  up  his  hat.  As  he  did  so  Mr.  Paul  Chalmers 
rose  from  his  seat,  wiped  his  brow  with  a  red  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, took  the  paper  protections  very  carefully  from  the 
sleeves  of  his  long  frock-coat,  put  on  a  very  badly  brushed  silk 
hat  with  an  abnormally  wide  brim,  and  tramped  out. 

'He's  gone  to  the  Vegetarian  Restaurant,'  said  Cleave  to 
Felix.  'He  eats  vegetables  for  the  good  of  his  brain,  sups  on 
bread  and  milk,  and  writes  all  night.  God  bless  him!  I'll 
join  you  if  you'll  allow  me.' 

They  lunched  in  a  large  restaurant  close  by,  where  Arliss  and 
his  companions  were  evidently  well  known.     All  the  attendants 


196  FELIX 

were  waitresses,  in  black  gowns  and  smart  white  caps  and 
aprons.  They  were  not  shy,  and  seemed  to  be  on  most  familiar 
terms  with  Mr.  Carringbridge's  pupils.  A  table  in  a  corner  had 
been  kept  for  Arliss,  and  by  it,  in  an  attitude  of  saucy  self- 
consciousness,  stood  a  short,  plump,  fair-haired  girl  with  round, 
blue  eyes,  chubby  lips,  and  a  large,  fluffy  fringe.  She  was  their 
waitress,  and  was  formally  presented  to  Felix  a«  the  'Babe.' 
This  young  lady  showed  great  complaisance.  She  made  Felix 
take  a  seat  in  a  corner  facing  the  room,  inquired  after  his  health, 
wished  him  success  in  the  journalistic  career,  and  promised  to 
do  anything  that  lay  in  her  power  to  assist  him  in  the  study 
of  women.  Felix  was  most  grateful,  more  especially  when 
Singleton  informed  him  that  the  'Babe's'  intellectual  powers 
were  remarkable,  and  that  she  always  helped  him  with  his 
articles. 

'  Do  you  write  many  ?  '  said  Felix. 

'One  every  month,' returned  Singleton  solemnly,  putting  up 
his  eyeglass  to  examine  his  mutton  cutlet  with  mushroom  sauce. 
'Slow  and  sure's  my  motto,  and  Sam  knows  it.' 

The  discussion  of  Sam  was  most  animated.  Felix  did  not 
know  what  he  thought  of  him.  Was  Sam  a  serious  cynic,  a 
genial  wit?  Did  he  really  care  whether  his  pupils  got  on,  or 
was  he  merely  a  good-natured  humbug  intent  on  spending  the 
evening  of  his  days  in  the  maximum  of  comfort  procured  by 
the  minimum  of  effort  ? 

Mr.  Singleton,  who  seemed  to  be  of  a  somewhat  melancholy 
temperament,  shook  his  head  gently  in  answer  to  Felix's  ques- 
tions, and  murmured  something  vague  about  the  mysteries  in 
the  heart  of  man. 

'Oh,  cheer  up,  do,  Mr.  Singleton,' said  the  'Babe.'  'Sam's 
done  a  lot  for  you,  I  'm  sure.  Why,  but  for  him  you  might 
never  have  seen  me.     And  there's  a  loss  for  you.' 

Cleave  considered  Sam  to  be  '  as  clever  as  he  could  stick.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix.     '  But  does  he  teach  one  much  ? ' 

'That  depends  on  one,'  replied  Cleave. 

'  Exactly,'  said  Arliss.  '  If  you  bother  Sam  you  can  get  a  lot 
out  of  him.' 

'Then  I  shall  bother  him,'  said  Felix. 

Mr.  Harry  Cleave  looked  at  him  very  seriously  over  a  glass  of 
lager  beer. 

'  If  a  second  Paul  Chalmers  is  added  to  the  school  I  feel 
convinced  that  our  little  Samuel  will  succumb,'  he  said,  in  an 
anxious  voice. 

'  Why  ? '  asked  Felix.     '  Does  Chalmers  bother  Sam  much  ? ' 


FELIX  197 

*  Much  ! '  cried  Arliss.  '  Never  leaves  him  alone  for  a  minute. 
Chalmers  shows  up  an  article  a  day  as  regularly  as  clockwork. 
But  it 's  Sam's  own  fault.     He  oughtn't  to  have  taken  Chalmers.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'Because  Chalmers  is  an  idiot.  Poor  chap  !  He  's  awful,  of 
course,  but  I  declare  I  pity  him,  sweating  away  like  that  and  all 
for  nothing.  He  '11  never  get  on.  Why,  he  's  forty  already  and 
can't  get  near  a  grammatical  sentence.' 

'  And  he  won't  have  the  "  Babe's  "  help,'  added  Singleton,  with 
mournful  regret.  '  I  offered  it  to  him,  and  he  told  me  he  didn't 
consider  it  would  be  honest  of  him  to  accept  the  assistance  of  a 
woman  ;  as  if  woman  wasn't  brought  into  the  world  expressly  to 
be  of  assistance  to  man.' 

At  this  point  the  'Babe'  intervened  and,  in  the  liveliest 
cockney  manner,  began  to  combat  Singleton's  conception  of  the 
intentions  of  Providence  in  creating  Eve.  Mr.  Harry  Cleave  and 
Arliss  joined  in,  and  the  lunch  concluded  in  a  perfect  hubbub 
of  slangy  merriment  and  obvious  repartee,  of  which  latter  the 
'Babe'  proved  herself  to  be  an  accomplished  mistress. 

When  Felix  reached  his  flat  that  afternoon  he  was  in  splendid 
spirits.  The  light-hearted  gaiety  of  youth  which  prevailed  in 
Sam's  school  was  infectious.  Mr.  Paul  Chalmers  was  the  only 
member  of  the  little  community  who  did  not  succumb  to  it. 
But  then  he  had  been  a  piano-tuner  for  more  than  fifteen  years. 
Felix  had  not,  and  was  a  happy  victim  to  the  epidemic.  He 
liked  Sam.  He  liked  Arliss,  Cleave,  Singleton — everybody.  He 
had  already  asked  the  'Babe'  to  tea  and  she  had  most  demurely 
promised  to  come  on  a  Saturday,  if  she  might  bring  another 
girl  as  a  chaperon.  And  this  coming  into  contact  with  other 
young  lives  seemed  to  Felix  to  have  set  him  on  his  feet  in 
London.  Henceforth  he  was  at  home.  He  had  something  to 
do,  somewhere  to  go  each  day.  He  was  part  of  an  intimate  and 
lively  community,  not  an  intellectual  one,  perhaps,  but  that  did 
not  matter.  The  sprite  which  has  its  throne  in  the  heart  of 
youth  governed  him  just  then,  and  gaiety  of  mind  seemed  more 
to  be  desired  than  even  romance  with  all  its  tender  troubles. 

He  sat  down  at  his  writing-table  and  began  an  article  on  the 
'Blessings  of  Humbug.' 


CHAPTER   XVI 

BY  the  end  of  the  week  he  felt  quite  an  old  stager  at  Sam's, 
and  was  on  terms  of  good-comradeship  with  all  the 
pupils.  They  were  a  pleasant  set  of  fellows.  When  Felix  had 
vouched  for  them  to  his  mother  he  had  not  lied.  There  was 
not  one  whom  he  disliked.  On  the  other  hand  there  was  not 
one  whom  he  thought  likely  to  prove  specially  interesting.  The 
gaiety  which  prevailed  in  the  '  writing-hall '  was  infectious.  He 
joined  in  it  with  a  light  heart.  But  already  he  could  not  help 
feeling  at  times  a  faint  contempt  for  the  lack  of  energy,  of  am- 
bition, of  grip  in  his  companions.  They  seemed  to  expect  life, 
like  a  rising  wave,  to  carry  gifts  to  their  feet.  Only  one  seemed 
to  realise  that  it  is  a  tight-fisted  miser  from  whom  it  is  necessary 
boldly  to  wrest  most  of  the  things  worth  having.  And  this  one 
— Felix  understood  the  irony  of  the  situation — who  did  realise, 
who  had  a  grim  purpose  and  the  power  to  make  an  effort,  was 
without  the  talent  to  compel.  Paul  Chalmers  was  a  dogged 
man.  He  set  his  teeth  and  toiled.  He  was  thorough.  He 
grudged  no  labour.  He  gave  to  the  life  he  had  chosen  all  he 
had  to  give.     But  it  was  not  enough. 

Attracted  by  his  oddity,  Felix  quickly  contrived  to  break  down 
the  barriers  which  Chalmers's  shyness  and  furious  industry  set  up 
between  him  and  the  rest  of  Sam's  pupils.  He  found  the  ex- 
piano-tuner  sensitive  to  sympathy.  Angular,  gauche,  he  was 
yet  a  man  of  much  feeling.  A  little  kindness  touched  him, 
and  though  his  response  was  scarcely  graceful  it  was  obviously 
sincere.  He  told  Felix  of  his  hopes  for  the  future,  and  even 
was  won  over  to  show  two  of  his  articles.  Felix  read  them  on 
Friday  evening  and  thought  them  hopeless.  Chaos  brooded 
over  them  as  it  brooded  over  the  waters  ere  the  days  of  creation. 
The  lack  of  education  was  naturally  apparent,  but  there  was  also 
apparent  a  lack  of  everything  which  makes  for  success  in  litera- 
ture :  originality,  clear  sight,  lucidity,  definiteness.  Chalmers's 
compositions  were  formless,  muddled  both  in  thought  and  ex- 
pression, common  and  totally  uncertain  in  aim.  When  Felix 
read  them  he  felt  sad.     When  he  gave  them  back  to  Chalmers 


FELIX  199 

and  met  his  fierce,  inquiring,  middle-aged  eyes  he  felt  sadder 
still. 

He  was  angry  with  Sam  for  having  taken  Chalmers  as  a  pupil, 
and  on  Saturday  morning,  when  he  was  having  an  interview 
with  his  smiling  preceptor,  could  not  help  hinting  that  he 
thought  it  was  unlikely  Chalmers  could  ever  succeed  as  a  writer. 

'  Let  us  hope  for  the  best,  Mr.  Wilding,'  said  Sam  blandly. 
*I  always  do.  Mr.  Chalmers  has  perseverance  and  ambition. 
Let  us  hope  for  the  very  best.' 

'But  are  perseverance  and  ambition  any  good  without  talent?' 
said  Felix. 

'They  are  better  with  it,'  replied  Sam,  'undoubtedly.  But 
who  is  to  say  that  Mr.  Chalmers  is  without  talent?' 

Felix  felt  rather  snubbed.  He  wondered  whether  he  had 
talent.  If  he  had  would  it  not  be  difhcult  to  develop  it  among 
that  chattering  crowd?  He  had  not  Chalmers's  power  of  con- 
centrating himself  on  his  work  in  the  midst  of  noise.  Chalmers 
was  entirely  oblivious  of  those  around  him.  With  some  fruit, 
some  tomatoes,  some  biscuits  ranged  before  him  to  supply 
occasional  stimulus  to  brain  and  body — he  had  strong  views  on 
diet,  and  worked  on  a  regimen — he  wrote  for  hours  without 
lifting  his  eyes  or  uttering  a  word.  To  attract  his  attention  it 
was  necessary  to  touch,  or  even  to  shake  him.  Then  he  would 
look  up,  dazed,  like  a  man  roused  suddenly  from  a  deep  sleep. 
Felix  could  not  help  hearing  the  conversations  which  went  on 
around  him,  and  which  continually  suggested  to  him  trains  of 
thought  quite  foreign  to  the  subject  with  which  his  pen  was 
dealing.  Sometimes,  in  these  moments  of  not  wholly  unjileasant 
distraction,  he  was  sharply  conscious  of  the  confusion  of  life,  of 
the  everlasting  eddies  in  the  stream,  of  the  diverging  currents 
which  make  it  so  difficult  to  steer  a  course.  Would  he  ever 
even  know  what  he  really  thought?  He  wondered.  The 
certainties  of  the  boy  at  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  were  being 
taken  from  him  by  the  four  winds  and  by  all  the  hurrying 
waves. 

He  felt  different  from  Sam's  pupils  in  many  ways,  but  most  of 
all  in  one.  They  seemed  to  want  so  little.  He  knew  he  wanted 
so  much.  A  kiss  from  the  'Babe'  delighted  Singleton.  Arliss 
was  satisfied  with  a  very  ordinary  '  spree.'  Harry  Cleave  spent 
half  his  time  in  the  devising  of  elaborate  practical  jokes.  Even 
the  great  Samuel  appeared  to  be  quite  contented  to  sit  day  after 
day  in  his  cosy  sanctum,  reading  the  I'apers,  smoking  cigar  after 
cigar,  and  blandly  dropping  words  of  honeyed  worldly  wisdom 
into  his  pupils'  ears,     Felix  wondered  if  he  were  solitary  in  his 


200  FELIX 

greediness  for  life,  for  something  striking,  great,  romantic,  even 
bitter,  something  that  would  make  him  feel,  '  I  have  seen  the 
hidden  goddess.  I  have  touched  hands  with  the  Fates.  I  have 
heard  a  voice  from  the  centre  of  things,  from  the  darkness  and 
the  heart  of  the  world.'  Was  he  any  nearer  to  the  centre,  to  the 
heart  of  things  here  and  now  than  when  he  sat  with  the  tailor  by 
the  fire,  or  looked  out  with  him  upon  the  coming  of  the  spring? 
He  was  just  beginning  to  learn  that  man  is  a  pursuer  from  the 
cradle  till  he  sinks  into  the  grave. 

It  happened  that  on  Saturday  night,  when  he  was  going  to 
dine  with  the  Ismeys,  he  was  in  a  fiercely  animated  mood.  This 
mood  had  been  brought  on  by  work.  He  had  spent  the  after- 
noon shut  up  in  his  flat  alone,  striving  for  the  first  time  to  write 
an  imaginative  story.  While  he  dressed  for  dinner  his  brain 
hummed,  so  he  felt,  with  thoughts.  They  had  surely  voices  and 
murmured.  One  called  to  him,  and  another.  Each  was  anxious 
to  claim  his  attention,  to  seem  worthy,  to  find  favour  in  his  eyes. 
The  fighting  thoughts  in  the  brain  are  terrible  egoists.  And 
each  one  longs  to  live.  When  he  went  down  into  the  air  he 
found  the  night  was  cold.  As  he  drove  towards  Green  Street 
this  coldness  of  the  atmosphere  rendered  him  more  acutely  aware 
of  the  heat  and  the  fire  within  himself,  of  the  strange  and 
mysterious  ardour  of  his  own  personal  life.  The  processions  of 
thoughts  in  his  mind,  the  processions  of  feelings  in  his  heart, 
bewildered  him.  He  looked  at  the  hurrying  figures  of  the  streets, 
half  seen  in  the  waxing  and  waning  lamplight,  and  the  strange, 
and  almost  terrible  idea  struck  him  that  enclosed  in  each  one 
of  those  innumerable,  flitting  shapes  were  such  processions, 
infinitely  multiplied.  There  was  a  sort  of  beginning  of  madness 
in  the  mental  contemplation  of  one  such  human  fact.  People, 
people,  people — and  in  each  person  a  crowd.  A  crowd  of 
thoughts  moving  towards  action ;  a  crowd  of  loves  and  hates  and 
resistances  and  acquiescences.  Terrible,  frightening  vitality  of 
the  world. 

The  cab  stopped.  He  saw  a  strip  of  carpet,  an  open  door, 
footmen,  lights.  It  was  time  to  cast  away  this  mood.  He 
sprang  out. 

When  he  reached  the  drawing-room  he  found  Mr.  Ismey  there 
with  three  people :  Mr.  King  Marshall,  a  small  elderly  lady  with 
white  hair  and  very  neat,  aristocratic  features,  and  a  pale, 
youngish  man,  with  a  bald  head  and  light-brown  moustaches 
turned  up  at  the  ends.  Mrs.  Ismey  was  not  in  the  room. 
Felix  wondered  if  she  were  ill.  Mr.  Ismey,  who  looked,  Felix 
thought,  worried  and  careworn,  greeted   him  kindly  and  pre- 


FELIX  201 

sented  him  to  Lady  Enfield,  and  to  the  pale  man  with  the  bald 
head,  whose  name  Felix  did  not  catch. 

'  Mr.  King  Marshall  and  you  have  met  already,  I  think,' 
he  said. 

'Yes,'  said  the  novelist,  in  his  thin,  melancholy  voice. 

He  shook  hands  gently  with  Felix,  and  began  to  speak  to  him 
about  autumn  effects  in  great  ciiies.  His  mind  was  evidently 
full  at  the  moment  of  this  subject.  When  he  paused  for  an 
instant  Felix  heard  Mr.  Ismey  apologising  for  his  wife's  absence 
to  the  other  two  guests. 

'  I  don't  think  she  has  been  feeling  very  well  to-day,'  he  said. 
*  She  was  lying  down  and  got  up  a  little  late  to  dress.' 

Lady  Enfield  expressed  the  hope  that  she  was  fit  to  come 
down  to  dinner. 

'  Oh  yes.  Her  maid  tells  me  that  she  is  all  right  now.  It 
was  only  a  severe  headache,  I  believe.' 

The  pale  man  began  to  speak  about  neuralgia  with  a  very 
strong,  but  pretty,  foreign  accent.  Felix,  in  a  low  voice,  inquired 
his  name  of  Mr.  King  Marshall. 

'  That  is  Antonino  Marza,  the  Sicilian  poet,'  he  answered. 

Felix  looked  at  the  pale  man  with  sudden,  deep  interest. 
Although  still  young — perhaps  thirty-eight  or  thirty-nine — he 
had  already  a  cosmopolitan  fame,  and  his  works  were  read  in 
translations  in  most  European  countries  and  in  America.  His 
face  was  plain,  but  his  eyes  were  intensely  animated,  and  he 
spoke  with  great  rapidity.  Lady  Enfield  was  evidently  much 
interested  in  him.  She  kept  her  light  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
all  the  time  he  was  speaking,  and  her  face,  which  was  like  a 
cameo,  kept  changing  delicately  in  obedience  to  his  changing 
words. 

The  door  opened  and  two  ladies  came  in,  one  behind  the 
other.  The  first  was  a  small,  very  handsome,  blonde  woman, 
who  looked  like  a  Milanese ;  the  second  was  a  typical  British 
beauty  of  the  lean,  fair,  well-bred  species,  with  wavy,  thick,  brown 
hair,  parted  in  the  middle  and  growing  low  on  the  forehead,  a 
radiant  complexion,  and  clear,  brown  eyes,  full  of  purity  and 
courage.  Felix  took  a  great  fancy  to  her  on  the  spot.  There 
was  something  about  her  that  suggested  clear,  runnmg  water  in 
sunshine,  mountain  breezes  over  heather  and  the  light-blue  skies 
of  spring.  Mr.  Ismey,  after  he  had  greeted  these  guests,  began 
to  look  preoccupied.  He  called  the  butler  to  him,  and  said  a 
few  words  in  a  low  voice. 

'  I  don't  know,  sir,'  answered  the  man. 

'Go  and  see,'  said  Mr.  Ismey.     'Say  that * 


202  FELIX 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Ismey  came  in  hurriedly. 

'  I  must  apologise,'  she  said,  going  up  at  once  to  Lady  Enfield. 
'  I  am  utterly  ashamed  of  myself,  but  I  had  a  frightful  headache 
this  afternoon,  lay  down  in  the  dark  and  eventually  fell  asleep. 
My  maid  forgot  to  wake  me.' 

She  shook  hands  with  every  one  and  answered  their  inquiries 
with  a  languid  smile. 

'  The  headache  is  quite  gone.  If  only  you  will  forgive  me  1 
shall  be  perfectly  happy.'  She  greeted  Felix  last.  As  he  took 
her  hand  he  thought  she  looked  as  Lady  Caroline  Hurst  had 
looked  when  she  came  lounging  into  the  boudoir.  There  was  a 
tired,  fixed  expression  on  her  face.  Weariness  floated  in  her 
eyes.  She  screwed  them  up  as  if  the  light  hurt  them.  Felix 
noticed  Antonino  Marza  staring  at  her  with  a  strange  expression 
of  sarcastic  interest,  which  made  him  feel  angry,  as  if  some  one 
had  laughed  at  one  of  his  secret  thoughts.  Dinner  was  an- 
nounced at  once,  and  they  went  in.  Mr.  Ismey  took  in  Lady 
Enfield.  Marza  was  with  the  blonde  woman,  who  seemed 
intimate  with  him  and  talked  to  him  in  Italian.  Felix  was  intro- 
duced to  the  English  beauty  and  asked  to  take  her  down.  Mrs. 
Ismey  followed  with  King  Marshall.  The  English  girl's  name 
was  Miss  Hartfield.  She  was  as  natural  as  she  looked,  and 
began  at  once  to  talk  quietly  to  Felix  in  a  limpid,  soprano  voice. 
Lady  Enfield  was  on  Felix's  other  side.  Marza  and  his  com- 
panion were  opposite.  They  were  still  conversing  in  Italian. 
Felix  thought  it  an  exquisite  language.  He  had  never  heard  it 
spoken  before.  Mrs.  Ismey  and  King  Marshall  sat  in  silence. 
She  looked  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  plainer  than  Felix  had 
ever  seen  her  look  before.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  wore 
long,  white  gloves,  which  she  did  not  take  off  to  eat  her  soup. 
She  spoke  to  one  of  the  servants,  who  brought  her  a  liqueur 
glass  filled  with  a  liquid  that  looked  like  brandy.  She  sipped 
it,  turned  towards  King  Marshall,  and,  with  the  air  of  one  making 
an  eff"ort,  began  to  talk  to  him. 

Miss  Hartfield  was  a  charming  companion.  Felix  found  her 
cultivated,  peculiarly  well  bred,  and  ready  to  be  pleased.  They 
got  on  well  and  talked  about  various  things :  scenery,  music, 
finally  literature.  She  was  evidently  an  ardent  reader,  but  said 
that  she  often  felt  '  out  of  it '  in  London  because  she  could  not 
enjoy  unpleasant  books  dealing  with  painful  subjects,  or  dissect- 
ing evil  characters,  even  if  they  were  exquisitely  written  and 
perfect  in  form.  Thus  she  had  a  horror  of  Guy  de  Maupassant's 
most  brilliant  work,  Bel  Ami,  and  acknowledged  that  she  had 
stopped  midway  in  it  and  had  never  finished  it.     The  only  book 


FELIX  203 

of  Zola's  which  she  could  endure  was  Le  Rcve,  and  she  admitted 
shrinking  from  the  merciless  genius  of  Balzac.  King  Marshall 
overheard  her  saying  this  and  broke  into  the  conversation.  He 
evidently  knew  Miss  Hartfield  well,  and  spoke  to  her  in  an 
almost  paternal  tone.  Truth,  he  said,  was  the  only  quality 
which  she  ought  always  to  demand  from  an  author.  Her 
remarks  showed  lack  of  courage.  She  replied  that  she  loved  to 
read  truth,  but  it  must  be  the  truth  of  goodness,  of  purity,  of 
bravery,  love,  endurance  of  sorrow,  not  the  truth  of  all  the 
degrading  qualities,  of  all  the  hideous  crimes  present  in  life. 
Marza,  who  had  been  listening  to  her  for  two  or  three  minutes 
with  obvious  intentness,  took  the  part  of  King  Marshall,  but  at 
once  showed,  Felix  thought,  a  marked  preference  for  the  truth 
of  evil  over  the  truth  of  good.  He  spoke  with  an  extraordinary 
bluntness,  but  at  the  same  time  with  a  great  deal  of  subtlety  on 
the  value,  the  superb  value  he  called  it,  of  black  in  life,  literature, 
painting,  music — for  he  spoke  of  the  different  colours  of  different 
sounds,  and  combinations  of  sounds,  as  if  they  were  acknow- 
ledged by  every  one.  Without  black,  he  declared,  life  and  the 
arts  would  be  intolerable.  The  reason  why  the  popular  con- 
ception of  heaven  was  so  loathsome  to  really  artistic  people  was 
because  black  was  banished  from  it,  and  nothing  left  to  appeal 
to  the  mind's  eye  but  a  horrible  yellow  nightmare,  bathed  in 
eternal  light,  glittering  like  the  crystal  globe  on  the  top  of  a 
child's  Christmas-tree. 

'  And  yet  you  come,  like  me,  from  the  land  of  the  sun,  Nino, 
said  the  blonde  woman,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Creshet. 

'It  is  the  land  of  the  cypress  too,'  he  answered,  'and  the 
land  of  old  cities.  Have  you  ne^er  adored  the  black  that  is  in 
Italy?' 

Lady  Enfield,  who  was  charming  in  her  love  of  cleverness, 
but  who  was  anything  but  clever,  said  in  a  sweet,  frail 
voice : 

'Certainly  black  is  very  becoming.  I  think  pretty  women 
look  their  worst  as  brides.  Is  that  what  you  mean,  Signor 
Marza  ? ' 

Marza  replied  by  a  suitably  inane  compliment  to  pretty 
women. 

'They  always  look  delicious  at  a  funeral,'  he  murmured, 
showing  his  beautiful,  white  teeth. 

Mrs.  Creshet  glanced  at  him  and  laughed.  When  she  did 
so,  Felix  thought  she  looked  wicked,  and  as  if  the  wickedness 
in  her  were  reaching  out  a  hand  to  a  brother  in  the  poet.  Lady 
Enfield  proceeded  to  a  discussion  of  black  gowns.     She  could 


204  FELIX 

evidently  only  think  of  colours  in  relation  to  clothes.  Mr, 
Ismey,  who  kept  perpetually  stealing  strange  glances  at  his 
wife,  gave  Lady  Enfield  his  attention  to  set  Marza  free,  and  the 
poet,  looking  at  Miss  Hartfield,  plunged  again  into  the  topic  of 
the  value  of  black.  After  a  minute  or  two  he  exclaimed : 
'I  cannot  say  what  I  want  in  English.     It  is  dreadful.' 

*  I  understand  French,'  said  Miss  Hartfield. 

'And  you,'  suddenly  exclaimed  Marza,  looking  at  Felix, 
*do  you  understand  French?' 

Felix  reddened  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  He  felt  himself 
to  be  such  a  nonentity  that  it  delighted  him  to  find  that  this 
great  man  cared  whether  he  was  one  of  his  comprehending 
audience  or  not. 

'  Yes,'  he  said  with  diffidence,  '  I  do.* 

*  Bien  I '  cried  Marza. 

He  continued  his  harangue  in  French.  King  Marshall  began 
to  fidget  and  to  crumble  his  bread  into  tiny  pellets.  Every  one 
was  listening  to  Marza  except  Lady  Enfield  and  Mr.  Ismey,  who 
still  spoke  about  black  gowns.  Now  and  then  Miss  Hartfield 
broke  in,  also  speaking  French.     Once  she  said : 

'  You  go  too  far,  Signor  Marza.  You  revel  in  what  is  horrible. 
You  are  morbid.' 

'Ah,'  he  said  vehemently,  'that  is  the  eternal  accusation 
which  is  launched  against  me.  To  be  able  to  penetrate  deep 
into  the  diseases  to  which  human  nature  is  liable  is  not  to  be 
morbid.' 

As  if  instinctively  he  turned  towards  Mrs.  Ismey  when  he  said 
this.  Her  face  suddenly  twitched  as  if  she  had  St.  Vitus's 
dance,  and  an  expression  that  was  like  an  expression  of  fear 
came  into  her  eyes. 

'  To  be  clairvoyant  is  not  to  be  morbid,'  he  continued,  still 
looking  at  her. 

'Do  you  claim  to  be  clairvoyant?  '  she  asked. 

'Yes,' replied  the  poet  boldly.  '  Especially  when  lam  with 
women.' 

'  And  yet  women  like  you  ! '  she  said.     '  Isn't  that  strange  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  Mrs.  Creshet.     '  We  love  what  we  fear.' 

Mr.  Ismey  stopped  talking  to  Lady  Enfield.  The  turn  the 
conversation  was  taking  seemed  to  arrest  his  attention. 

'  Only  that  ? '  he  said  in  French. 

There  was  something  startling  in  his  intonation.  Everybod} 
felt  it,  except  apparently  King  Marshall,  who  was  still  crumbling 
his  bread  into  pellets. 

*  Only  that  ? '  repeated  Mr.  Ismey. 


FELIX  205 

*  Do  you  ask  your  wife  or  me  ? '  said  Mrs.  Creshet,  with  a  faint 
malice. 

'You,  Mrs.  Creshet,'  he  answered  quickly. 

'  Well,  I  doubt  if  any  woman  could  truly  love  a  man  whom 
she  felt  that  she  could  never  fear  under  any  circumstances,'  she 
said. 

'But  perfect  love  casteth  out  fear,'  said  Miss  Hartfield,  in  her 
quiet  voice,  which  seemed  always  to  have  the  sun  on  it. 

'So  the  Bible  says!'  Marza  exclaimed,  with  obvious  bitter 
sarcasm. 

Lady  Enfield  looked  rather  shocked  and  rather  confused  too. 
Marza  turned  to  King  Marshall. 

'What  do  you  say,  my  dear  master? '  he  asked,  still  speaking 
French. 

King  Marshall  looked  up  from  his  bread-crumbs  like  a  man 
startled. 

Well  ? '  said  Marza  with  insistence. 

'  Truth,'  answered  the  novelist  vaguely  in  English.  'Truth — 
we  must  seek  only  that,  only  and  always  that.' 

He  gazed  down  again  at  his  bread-crumbs. 

'  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Marshall,'  said  Mrs.  Creshet  in  English, 
*we  are  coming  to  you  to  ask  you  what  is  the  truth  on  this 
subject.     You  were  listening,  weren't  you  ? ' 

She  spoke  rather  impertinently  and  challengingly. 

'Certainly,  certainly,'  he  replied. 

'And  you  grasped  our  meaning,  of  course?' 

Felix  wondered  what  she  meant.  King  Marshall  looked  her 
full  in  the  eyes. 

'Naturally,'  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  marked  hesitation. 
'But  the  truth  is  difficult  to  come  at  in  a  moment.' 

He  turned  to  Mrs.  Ismey,  and  began  speaking  to  her  rather 
hurriedly  about  some  political  topic  of  the  moment.  All  the 
rest  of  the  evening  Felix  noticed  that  he  seemed  constrained  and 
ill  at  ease. 

Felix  was  deeply  interested  in  Marza.  The  Italian  was 
evidently  a  pagan  and  rejoiced  in  it.  There  was  in  his  con- 
versation a  curious  mixture  of  brutality  and  delicacy  which 
fascinated  Felix.  His  intellect  was  obviously  as  subtle  as  his 
nature  was  animal.  When  the  ladies  had  gone  into  the  drawing- 
room  he  spoke  with  more  unabashed  freedom  on  various  subjects 
not  usually  discussed  at  dinner-parties.  He  spoke  in  English, 
at  the  special  request  of  Mr.  Ismey,  who  declared  that  his 
French  had  become  shaky,  and  that  he  was  only  at  ease  in  his 
own  language.     Mr.  King  Marshall  said  very  little,  and  Felix 


206  FELIX 

was  an  enchanted  listener.  He  remembered  saying  to  the  tailoi 
in  the  forest  that  he  would  go  to  London,  and  that  he  would  get 
to  know  the  people  who  were  doing  things,  who  were  influencing 
the  minds  and  the  hearts  of  the  world.  Now  he  sat  with  two 
famous  men  and  heard  them  talk.  He  could  hardly  believe  his 
own  good  fortune.  Eagerly  he  drank  in  everything  Marza  said. 
The  poet  made  him  feel  as  if  life  were  a  flower  given  to  a  child 
to  pluck  to  pieces.  When  the  last  petal  had  been  examined, 
and  the  heart  of  the  flower  stood  on  the  stem  utterly  unprotected 
by  leaves,  then  it  was  time  for  the  child  to  die.  How  many 
petals  had  he  plucked?  Not  one,  he  thought.  He  was  stirred 
by  a  longing  to  rush  out  into  the  night,  to  grasp  the  flower,  to 
tear  off"  the  first  petal.  Marza  roused  in  him  the  destructive 
passion.  He  did  not  notice  King  Marshall  looking  at  him 
intently  with  his  fiery,  brown  eyes.  Marza  often  addressed  his 
remarks  to  Felix.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  the  obvious,  enthusiastic 
interest  of  the  boy. 

It  was  rather  late  when  they  went  up  into  the  drawing-room. 
They  found  Mrs.  Creshet  looking  frightfully  bored  on  a  sofa 
beside  Lady  Enfield,  who  was  busily  talking  about  bonnets. 

'But,  my  dear  Lady  Enfield,  what  are  bonnets?'  Felix  heard 
Mrs.  Creshet  say,  as  he  came  into  the  room.  '  Have  I  ever 
seen  one?  Do  explain.  Of  course  I  know  a  hat.  But  what's 
a  bonnet?' 

Lady  Enfield,  who  always  wore  bonnets  despite  the  tyranny 
of  fashion,  looked  like  one  suddenly  confronted  by  an  idiot. 

Mrs.  Ismey,  who  was  talking  to  Miss  Hartfield,  presently 
called  Felix  to  her  with  a  glance.  He  sat  down  beside  her. 
King  Marshall  joined  Miss  Hartfield.  Mrs.  Ismey  still  looked 
tired  and  unusually  plain.    White  did  not  suit  her,  Felix  thought. 

'  Is  this  your  first  dinner-party  in  London? '  said  she. 

*  Yes,'  he  answered. 

*  Have  you  enjoyed  yourself?  ' 

'  Enormously,'  he  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm.  'I  have  never 
enjoyed  anything  so  much  before.' 

'You  find  Signor  Marza  interesting?' 

'Intensely.  But  who  would  not?  How  wonderfully  clever 
he  is.' 

'  He  is  too  clever,'  she  said,  lowering  her  voice. 

'  Oh,  but  how  can  any  one  be  that  ?  ' 

•Lots  of  people  are,  believe  me.  Take  care  you  never 
become  so.' 

'I!'  said  Felix,  with  genuine  humbleness.  'There's  no 
chance  of  that.' 


FELIX  207 

*  I  don't  know.' 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  weary  eyes.  Felix  suddenly 
felt  compassionate. 

'  Are  you  really  feeling  better  ? '  he  almost  whispered. 

'Oh  yes.' 

She  moved,  as  if  shaken  by  some  intolerable  sensation. 

'  This  roorh  is  very  hot,'  she  said. 

She  began  feverishly  to  pull  off  one  of  the  long,  white  gloves 
which  she  had  kept  on  the  whole  evening.  Felix  watched  her 
doing  it  with  eagerness.  Everything  that  a  woman  of  the 
world  did  interested  him  as  nothing  else  interested  him.  Her 
arm  was  beautiful  as  it  slipped  into  view.  Its  warmer  white- 
ness was  made  more  lovely  by  the  whiteness  of  her  dress.  He 
longed  for  the  moment  when  he  would  see  her  hand.  Sluwly 
she  pulled  the  long  glove  lower  till  her  wrist  was  bare.  Felix's 
eyes  began  to  shine.  He  bent  a  little  forward.  Then, 
abruptly,  he  turned  away  and  looked  at  the  other  people  in 
the  room.  He  felt  quite  sick,  almost  as  if  he  had  seen  a 
crime  committed. 

He  longed  to  say,  'For  God's  sake  put  on  your  glove  again.' 

Her  hand  was  horribly  dirty,  more  filthy,  he  thought, 
than  the  hand  of  any  poor  working  woman  that  he  had  ever 
seen. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  she  asked. 

He  turned  to  her  again,  but  kept  his  eyes  away  from  her 
hand.  He  hesitated.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  she  did  not 
know — that  she  had,  by  accident,  forgotten  to — no,  it  was 
impossible;  he  dared  not.  He  felt  that  he  would  never  be 
forgiven. 

'  Nothing,'  he  answered. 

She  looked  quite  calm.  Evidently  she  had  no  idea  what 
was  the  matter. 

At  this  moment  Lady  Enfield  got  up  to  go.  Felix  was 
thankful.     There  was  a  general  movement.     He  said  good-bye. 

'  Come  to  see  me  to-morrow  afternoon,'  Mrs.  Ismcy  said, 
touching  his  hand  with  that  dreadful  hand.  '  That  is  if  you 
wish  to  conform  to  the  strictest  etiquette.' 

'  I  will,'  he  said. 

He  was  glad  to  take  his  hand  away,  and  yet  she  charmed  him 
always.  He  only  felt  that  she  had  made  a  dreadful  mistake  of 
which  she  was  as  unconscious  as  a  child,  and  he  longed  to 
tell  her  of  it  and  to  protect  her  from  any  one  knowing  it  but  him. 
When  he  saw  her  shaking  hands  with  her  other  guests  he  almost 
shivered  with  anxiety. 


208  FELIX 

Marza  bade  him  good-bye  cordially. 

'  I  am  at  the  Carlton  Hotel,'  he  said.  '  Come  in  one  after- 
noon to  see  me.  I  am  in  London  for  a  month  to  arrange  about 
producing  a  play  here  next  summer.' 

Felix  thanked  him  and  promised  enthusiastically  to  call.  As 
Felix  was  leaving  the  house  King  Marshall  joined  him. 

*  Shall  we  walk  a  little  way  together?  '  he  said. 

'  May  I  walk  with  you  ?  '  said  Felix,  almost  intoxicated  by  his 
good  fortune,  and  wondering  why  such  men  cared  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him.     '  Oh,  thank  you.' 

They  set  out  towards  Park  Lane.  The  night  was  starless  and 
rather  cold.  King  Marshall  said  nothing,  and  Felix  did  not 
venture  to  start  any  conversation.  So  they  walked  down  Park 
Lane  till  they  were  near  to  the  corner  of  Piccadilly.  Here  the 
novelist  stopped. 

*  We  shall  have  to  part  in  a  moment,'  he  said.  *  I  am  going 
to  the  Devonshire  Club,  and  I  believe  you  live  in  Victoria 
Street.' 

'Yes,' said  Felix. 

'Well,  I  wish  to  say  something  to  you.' 

He  paused.     Felix  wondered  very  much  what  was  coming. 

*  Do  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  at  Ismey's  office  about 
truth  ? ' 

*  Yes,     I  shall  never  forget  it.' 

*  To-night  at  dinner  I  was  led  to  tell  a  falsehood.* 
'  A  falsehood  ! '  repeated  Felix  in  amazement. 

'  Yes.  I  do  not  speak  French,  or  understand  it  when  it  is 
spoken.  I  was,  therefore,  unable  to  know  what  was  being 
said  at  dinner.  When  Mrs.  Creshet  appealed  to  me  I  said  I 
did  know  what  had  been  said.  I  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge 
the  truth  before  a  brother-author  much  more  accomplished  than 
myself.' 

He  stopped.  Felix  said  nothing.  He  had  a  lump  in  his 
throat  and  could  not  speak.  After  an  instant  King  Marshall 
added  : 

'  I  was  the  son  of  a  very  poor  man  of  humble  origin,  and  was 
therefore  denied  the  education  of  a  gentleman.  In  consequence 
of  this  I  do  not  know  a  great  many  things  that  the  people  I  now 
meet  do  know.  I  believe  I  heard  Mr.  Marza  asking  you  to 
visit  him  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix. 

'  I  wish,  when  you  go,  you  would  kindly  explain  to  him  what 
I  have  just  told  you.  You  will  be  doing  me  a  great  favour. 
Will  you  do  it  ? ' 


FELIX  209 

*  But '  Felix  murmured. 

His  cheeks  were  hot. 

'Please  do,'  said  King  Marshall.     *  And  say  I  asked  you  to.' 
Felix  looked  at  him. 

*  Yes,  I  will,'  he  said. 

•Thank  you,  my  boy.     Goodnight.' 

The  novelist  shook  his  hand  and  walked  slowly  away.  Felix 
looked  after  him.  He  wore  a  cloak.  His  small  figure,  from 
which  the  cloak  swung  as  he  moved,  soon  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 

Felix  made  a  movement  to  follow  him.  But  then  he  refrained. 
He  was  a  boy  and  did  not  want  to  '  make  a  fool  of  himself.* 


CHAPTER     XVII 

NEXT  day,  for  the  second  time,  Felix  was  alone  in  a  room 
with  Mrs.  Ismey.  He  went  to  see  her  expectantly, 
though  why  that  mood  possessed  him  he  scarcely  knew.  She 
was  in  the  drawing-room  sitting  at  the  piano.  Several  wax 
candles  were  burning,  and  a  fire  was  lighted  on  the  hearth. 
Near  it  stood  a  tea-table.  As  he  came  in  Felix  noticed  that 
there  were  only  two  cups  on  the  pretty  white-and-green  cloth. 
The  low  sound  of  the  piano  filled  the  room  and  seemed  to  add 
to  its  beauty. 

Mrs.  Ismey  did  not  get  up  when  she  saw  him,  but  went  on 
playing,  and  said  to  him,  through  the  music  she  made  : 

'  I  am  so  glad  you  regarded  strict  etiquette.' 

Felix  came  up  to  the  piano  and  stood  by  it  looking  at  her, 
but  not  where  he  could  see  her  hands.  He  was  afraid  to  see 
them  after  last  night,  and  yet  he  longed  to.  She  was  playing 
without  notes.  He  did  not  know  the  composition,  which  was 
whimsical  and  sad,  barbarous  too,  he  thought.  He  guessed 
that  it  was  written  by  a  Russian. 

'  How  much  do  you  care  for  music  ?  *  she  asked,  just  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  above  the  sound  of  the  piano. 

'  Intensely,'  he  said.     '  It  makes  me  feel  so  many  things.* 

'What  things?' 

*  As  if  I  could  do  what  I  can't  do.' 

*And  what  is  that?' 

'  I  never  know.  Music  makes  me  feel,  but  it  doesn't  make 
me  know.' 

She  stopped  speaking.  He  was  glad.  He  wanted  to  watch 
her  and  to  listen.  She  looked  quite  childish  at  the  big  piano, 
he  thought,  and  much  prettier  than  she  had  looked  on  the 
previous  night.  But  she  did  not  look  well.  There  was  some- 
thing haggard  and  nervous  in  her  face,  and  even  in  her  attitude. 
Was  she,  he  wondered,  trying  to  be  herself  the  David  to  her  own 
Saul  ?  Her  hazel  eyes  shone  in  the  candle-light  under  her  thick 
eyebrows,  and  were  almost  as  yellow  as  a  cat's.  They  had 
a  strained  expression.     They  looked  like  sentinel  eyes  on  guard 

210 


FELIX  211 

in  the  dark.  To-day  the  way  she  played  was  not  like  Felix's 
con<eption  of  her.  It  was,  he  fancied,  more  like  Lady  Caroline's 
playing.  Perhaps  it  only  seemed  to  be  so  because  Lady 
Caroline  was  not  there  to  overshadow  her.  The  music  was 
very  interesting,  and  continually  increased  in  interest  as  it  drew 
towards  an  end.  The  wandering  fragments  of  melody  were 
drawn  towards  the  main  stream.  That  which  had  been  a 
little  difficult  to  understand  became  plain.  Felix  began  to  lose 
himself  in  the  happiness  of  hearing  when,  abruptly,  Mrs.  Ismey 
stopped  on  a  chord  which  had  no  finality,  but  which  demanded 
another  chord  to  follow  it.  She  got  up  from  the  piano  and 
went  towards  the  fire. 

'Oh,  why  do  you  do  that?'  asked  Felix,  feeling  physically 
hurt.     '  But  it 's  horrible  to  stop  like  that  in  the  middle.' 

'  It 's  tea-time,'  she  replied,  touching  the  bell.  '  Come  and  sit 
down.' 

He  came  away  from  the  piano  slowly.  He  was  almost  angry 
with  her. 

*  It 's  horrible  of  you  to  do  that,'  he  could  not  help  saying. 
She  looked  at  him,  and  sat  down  by  the  tea-table. 

*  Why,  what  a  sensitive  boy  you  are,'  she  said.  '  I  believe 
you  're  in  a  rage  with  me.     Yes,  you  are  in  a  rage.' 

He  forced  a  laugh. 

'  No,  indeed,  I  'm  not.     But  why  did  you  stop?' 

*  Because  I  was  tired  of  going  on.  That 's  one  of  my  faults. 
I  can't  finish  things.    I 'm  a  miserable,  inconsequent  woman.' 

'  Are  you  miserable  ?  '  he  said,  as  if  he  meant  it. 

Just  then  the  butler  came  in  with  tea.  Mrs.  Ismey  made  no 
reply  till  he  had  gone.     Then  she  said  : 

'You  must  not  ask  me  questions.' 

Felix  had  sat  down  opposite  to  her.  He  loved  being  thus 
alone  with  her. 

'  I  won't  do  anything  you  dislike,'  he  said. 

She  began  to  pour  out  tea. 

'  Perhaps  you  couldn't,'  she  answered. 

'  I  wish  I  knew  when  you  mean  what  you  say  and  when 
you  don't,'  he  said.     '  But  I  scarcely  ever  do.' 

She  gave  him  his  cup  and  took  her  own.  She  sipped  her 
tea  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  the  sugar-basin.  For  the 
first  time  he  glanced  at  her  hand,  and  at  once  a  happy  look 
came  into  his  face. 

'  Now,  why  do  you  suddenly  look  so  pleased?'  she  asked. 

Felix  reddened. 

'  You  don't  want  me  to  know  the  reason,'  she  added. 


212  FELIX 

'  No,  I  don't,'  he  said  boldly. 
*Was  it  something  about  me?' 

*  Well— yes.' 

*  I  wonder  what.     I  can't  guess.* 

'  It  is  almost  the  only  thought  I  have  ever  had  with  you 
that  you  haven't  guessed,  I  believe.' 

'  Then  I  understand  you  better  than  you  understand  me? ' 

'Of  course  you  do.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  scarcely  under- 
stand any  one  except  my  own  people.' 

She  smiled. 

*  Stephen — you  count  him  as  one  of  them  now,  I  suppose?  ' 

'  Oh,  Stephen  ! '  exclaimed  Felix.  '  I  understood  all  about 
him  after  I  had  been  with  him  for  five  minutes.  But  he  is 
cut  on  a  pattern,  isn't  he  ?' 

'  I  dare  say.    But  perhaps  I  am  too.    Quantities  of  women  are. 

*  I  am  sure  you  are  not.     Nor  is ' 

He  hesitated. 

*  Well,  go  on,'  she  said,  almost  curiously. 
'  I  was  going  to  say  Lady  Caroline.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  drank  her  tea  slowly  and  put  down  her  cup. 
'  Carrie  interests  you,'  she  said,  in  her  most  drawling  voice. 
'She  interests  you  very  much.' 
'Yes,  I  think  she  does.* 

*  More  than  I  do?' 
♦Oh  no.' 

'  As  much  ?  ' 

'  You  both  interest  me  more  than  any  two  people  I  ever  met 
before,'  he  said,  half  evasively. 

'  Don't  class  me  with  Carrie,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said  quickly,  and 
with  some  bitterness.     '  We  are  quite,  quite  different.' 

'  Of  course  I  know  you  are,'  he  exclaimed. 

'  And  yet  you  think  of  us  together.  Yes,  I  know  you  do.  I 
felt  it  the  other  night.     That 'snot  clever  of  you  ;  not  at  all  clever.* 

'  But  isn't  Lady  Caroline  your  greatest  friend?'  Felix  said. 

Again  he  was  conscious  of  hostility  in  Mrs.  Ismey. 

*  My  greatest  friend  ! '  she  said.      '  Carrie ! ' 

She  poured  herself  out  some  more  tea.  The  action,  perhaps, 
gave  her  time  to  think,  for  when  she  went  on  speaking  her 
manner  was  more  guarded. 

'  I  suppose  she  is,'  she  said.  '  Certainly  I  know  her  more 
intimately  than  I  know  any  other  woman.  So  if  great  knowledge 
is  great  friendship — well ! '  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  '  It 
is  a  question  with  some  people,  I  believe,  whether  any  woman 
can  have  a  great  friend  in  any  other  woman.     I  wonder  what 


FELIX  213 

Signer  Marza  would  say  on  that  subject.  He  has  studied  it,  of 
course,  as  he  has  studied  all  subjects  connected  with  us.  Hateful 
man  !* 

Felix  was  startled  by  the  vehemence  of  the  last  words. 

'  Do  you  mean  that  ? '  he  asked. 

'Yes,  I  do,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  this  time  with  unmistakable 
feeling.  '  A  man  who  can  allow  his  intellect  to  govern  his  heart, 
even  to  hold  the  reins  of  his  animal  passions  as  Marza  does,  is 
hateful.  His  intellect  is  never,  never  at  rest.  Even  his  intrigues 
are  only  so  many  lessons  in  the  lore  of  women.  And  the 
women  not  only  give  them  but  pay  for  them  too.  Ironical, 
isn't  it?' 

'  You  mean  he  is  always  studying  human  nature  ? '  asked  Felix. 

She  could  not  have  introduced  a  subject  which  interested 
him  more.  He  forgot  to  drink  his  tea  as  he  listened  to  her  ar  d 
looked  at  her  face,  which  was  very  expressive  in  the  quiet  light 
of  the  wax  candles  and  of  the  fire,  a  still  red  fire  in  which  no 
restless  flames  danced. 

'Yes.' 

'But  does  that  make  a  man  hateful?* 

'  To  a  woman,  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'Well,  yes.  I  think  I  meant  essentially  hateful  really,  but 
let 's  say  to  a  woman.' 

*  Yes,  it  does,  because  it  makes  him  cold  and  makes  him 
cruel.  Many  women  have  loved  Marza,  but  scarcely  one  who 
has  not  learnt  to  hate  him  in  the  end.' 

'And  yet,'  Felix  said,  'I  should  have  thought  that  studying 
human  nature  like  that  might  make  a  man  more  tender  instead 
of  more  cruel.  Mightn't  it?  Suppose  he  found  out  beauties 
in  a  character  which  he  had  never  suspected  before?' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  this  tea?  '  said  Mrs.  Ismey.  *  It  is  a 
mixture  of  Ceylon  and  China  tea.     Do  you  think  it 's  good  ?  ' 

Felix  grew  hot.  He  felt  as  if  she  had  slapped  his  face.  She 
spoke  with  butterfly  inconsequence,  brushing  away  the  topic  in 
which  his  mind  had  been  plunged  as  a  housemaid  brushes  away 
a  cobweb  from  a  dark  corner.  He  made  no  reply.  Her  eyes 
were  wandering  all  over  the  room,  like  a  child's  when  it  is  bored 
by  a  lesson,  and  searches  aimlessly  for  some  distraction,  a  fly 
on  the  window-pane,  or  a  sun-ray  on  the  white  ceiling. 

'My  husband  has  gone  down  to  Windsor,'  she  continued. 

'Has  he?'  Felix  replied  with  difficulty. 

'Yes,  to  see  a  novelist  about  some  book  he's  bringing  out. 
Well,  what  have  you  been  doing  to-day?  Have  you  been  to 
church  ? 


214  FELIX 

She  looked  at  him  now.  She  was  evidently  quite  unconscious 
of  the  vexation  she  had  caused  by  her  inconsequence. 

*  Yes;  I  went  this  morning.' 

*  Where  did  you  go  ? ' 

It  was  so  obvious  to  Felix  that  she  didn't  care,  and  was  merely 
speaking  for  the  sake  of  speaking,  that  he  answered  : 

'  I  don't  think  it  matters  much,  does  it  ?  ' 

Directly  he  had  said  the  words  he  thought,  perhaps,  he  had 
been  unpardonably  rude.  But  he  felt  on  wires.  All  his  nerves 
were  tingling. 

'  Did  you  say  St.  Paul's,  Knightsbridge  ? '  she  replied. 

Again  her  eyes  were  wandering  about  the  room.  Felix  put 
down  his  cup  and  got  up  quickly.  The  movement  attracted 
her  attention. 

'  Why,  what  are  you  doing  ? ' 

*I — I  ought  to  be  going,'  he  said  stiffly. 

All  the  young  blood  in  him  felt  congealed  by  her  careless 
inattention. 

'  I  am  boring  you,'  he  added.  'And  I  don't  wish  to  bore  you 
any  longer.' 

*  My  dear  boy!'  she  said.  'What  utter  nonsense!  Why, 
what's  the  matter?' 

She  got  up  quickly  too,  and  stood  quite  close  to  him,  looking 
up  into  his  face. 

'  What  have  I  done  ? '  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm 
lightly. 

'  Nothing.     But  I  am  boring  you,'  he  persisted.     *  Let  me  go.' 

He  felt  that  he  was  behaving  like  a  boy  instead  of  like  a  man. 
He  could  have  struck  himself  for  his  boyishness,  and  yet  he 
could  not  behave  in  any  other  way. 

'  But  I  won't,'  she  said.  '  Why,  I  am  keeping  out  all  callers 
this  afternoon  simply  to  have  a  good  talk  alone  with  you.' 

'  Not  really  ? ' 

'  But  I  am.  Do  you  suppose  no  one  comes  to  call  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon  ? '  She  moved  lightly  and  swiftly  to  the  bell 
and  touched  it,  then  held  up  her  hand.  *  Now  just  wait  and 
you  shall  see.' 

They  waited  in  silence.  Felix  looked  at  her  as  she  stood 
by  the  bell,  with  her  arm  stretched  out  in  a  soft  attitude  of 
expectation.     The  butler  came. 

'Has  any  one  called,  Henry?'  she  asked  him. 

•Yes,  ma'am ' 

*  Just  bring  up  any  cards  that  there  are — since  we  have  been 
having  tea.' 


FELIX  215 

The  man  went  out  and  returned  in  a  moment,  carrying  several 
cards  on  a  salver.     Mrs.  Ismey  took  them. 

'You  can  go.' 

The  man  left  the  room  and  shut  the  door.  Then  she  came 
up  to  Felix. 

'There,'  she  said,  giving  him  the  cards,  'there  are  the 
proofs  of  my  desire  to  have  a  quiet  talk  with  you.' 

Felix  looked  at  the  cards.  One  bore  the  name  of  Antonino 
Marza. 

'  Aren't  you  satisfied  ? '  she  said. 

She  spoke  really  as  if  she  cared  what  he  felt.  And  what  he 
felt  was  that  he  would  like  to  kiss  her  hand,  which  was  so 
beautiful  to-day. 

'  But  how  can  you  want  to  be  with  me  ? '  he  murmured. 
'I'm  a  boy — I  know  I 'm  a  young  ass  and  I  must  bore  you. 
You're  accustomed  always  to  being  with  such  brilliant  men,  all 
these  writers  and  poets  and  critics.' 

*  And  could  I  trust  one  of  them  to  drive  me  where  you  drove 
me  the  other  night?'  she  said.  'Marza  uses  his  intellect  too 
much  with  a  woman,  but  you  use  yours  too  little.     Now ' 

She  looked  at  him  and  at  the  chair  he  had  been  sitting  on. 
All  his  anger  was  gone.  He  was  in  a  sort  of  turmoil  of  con- 
fusion and  happiness.     When  he  had  sat  down  he  said : 

*  I  can't  think  why  you  're  so  good  to  me.' 

'I  have  smothered  you  with  benefits,  haven't  I?'  she 
answered. 

She  looked  at  him  as  she  spoke  and,  when  she  had  spoken, 
screwed  up  her  eyes.  As  Felix  grew  to  know  her  better  he 
found  that  this  was  a  trick  of  hers.  When  she  did  it  she  looked 
like  some  sort  of  queer,  fascinating  animal  that  was  sharp  as  a 
needle,  full  of  lightness,  humour,  and  coquetry — perhaps  a 
squirrel.  The  very  deliberation  of  this  trick  increased  its  fascina- 
tion for  Felix.  Now  that  she  had  persuaded  him  to  stay  she 
did  not  seem  to  have  anything  particular  to  say  to  him.  He 
could  not  help  noticing  that  this  afternoon  her  mind  was  a 
vagrant.  She  was  unable  or  unwilling  to  pursue  any  subject 
for  more  than  two  or  three  minutes.  Directly  he  began  to  be 
interested  in  it  she  tired  of  it.  In  any  other  person  this  incon- 
sequence would  have  irritated  him.  He  could  not  have  borne 
it  in  his  mother,  for  instance,  or  in  Margot.  But  Mrs.  Ismey 
actually  charmed  him  by  this  very  inconsequence  now  that  he 
was  prepared  for  it.  He  thought  of  it  as  part  of  her  elusive 
nature  which  he  could  not  understand.  And  then  it  was  com- 
bined with  intelligence,  not  with  stupidity.     She  did  not  fly 


216  FELIX 

away  from  any  question  because  she  was  puzzled  by  it,  or  knew 
nothing  about  it.  At  least  Felix  thought  not.  Often,  indeed, 
she  left  a  topic  only  after  she  had  slain  it  with  a  word,  or  held 
it  up  to  a  dry  light  of  ridicule  which  exposed,  to  his  eyes,  its 
meagre  little  skeleton.  Her  quickness  of  mind  delighted  him. 
He  was  not  wholly  disinclined  just  then  to  believe  that  swiftness 
was  depth. 

When  the  clock  struck  six  he  got  up  to  go. 

*What  are  you  doing  ?'  she  asked. 

*  I  ought  to  go.     I  have  been  here  two  hours.' 

*  Have  you?  Wait  a  moment.  Just  ring  the  bell  twice,  with 
a  little  pause  between.' 

Felix  did  so,  wondering. 

'  I  am  going  to  lend  you  a  book  of  Marza's,'  she  said,  'trans- 
lated into  French.  It  will  show  you  that  I  am  right  in  saying 
he  is  a  hateful  man.' 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  a  maid  appeared.  Felix 
hardly  knew  why,  but  he  looked  at  her  closely  and  with  interest. 
She  was  a  tall  girl,  apparently  about  twenty-four,  with  a  round 
pale  face,  black  hair,  and  small,  dark  eyes.  She  was  plainly 
dressed  in  black,  without  a  cap  or  apron.  Her  expression  was 
oddly  emotional  for  a  maid's,  and  she  had  very  pretty,  small 
hands.  Felix  saw  her  look  at  him  swiftly  and  curiously,  and 
instantly  look  away. 

*  Alice,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  '  I  wish  you  would  go  to  my  bedroom 
and  see  if  you  can  find  a  green-and-white  covered  book.  It  is 
one  of  Antonino  Marza's,  and  is  called  Centre.  I  believe  it  is 
on  the  table  by  my  bed.' 

'  The  one  I  put  the  food  on  at  night,  ma'am,  or  the  other?' 
said  the  maid. 

A  perverse  look  came  into  Mrs.  Ismey's  face. 

*The  other,  the  other ! '  she  said  hastily. 

Alice  went  out. 

'  But  I  thought  you  said  it  was  in  French?'  Felix  said. 

'  So  it  is,  but  I  have  had  it  rebound,  and  kept  the  original 
Italian  title.     I  like  it  better  than  Les  Cendres: 

They  waited  for  Alice  to  come  back.  She  was  rather  a  long  time. 

•She  can't  find  it,  I  suppose,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 

'Is  she  nice?'  Felix  asked.  He  felt  interested  in  the  maid, 
though  he  had  no  idea  why. 

'Alice?' 

*Yes.' 

'She's  a  clever  lady's-maid,  and  very  devoted  to  me,  but 
she's  got  faults.     If  one   trusts   her   completely,   and   makes 


FELIX  217 

her  feel  it,  she  will  do  anything  for  one  ;  but  if  one  tries  to  keep 
anything  from  her  she  can  be  perfectly  horrid.  Her  motto 
must  be  "  All  in  all  or  not  at  all."     Hush  !' 

Alice  came  back  carrying  the  book. 

'  What  an  age  you  've  been  ! '  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 

'  I  couldn't  find  it,  ma'am.' 

•  Why,  surely  it  was  on  the  table.' 

*No,  ma'am.' 

'Where  was  it,  then?' 

Alice  looked  at  her  mistress  in  silence. 

'Oh,  never  mind,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  '  as  long  as  you've  found 
it.     That  will  do.' 

She  took  the  volume  and  the  maid  went  out. 

'Read  that,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said.  'And  learn  from  it  how  not 
to  treat  a  woman.' 

She  gave  Felix  the  book.  It  had  an  exquisite  binding  of 
white  and  green,  tooled  with  gold,  and  with  a  gold  pattern  of 
palm  leaves,  but  on  one  side  of  it  there  was  a  large  red  stain. 

'  Oh,  look  !  what  a  pity  ! '  Felix  exclaimed. 

Beauty  wounded  always  hurt  him. 

'It 's  red  ink,'  he  added,  after  examining  the  cover. 

'  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  spoke  with  complete  indifference.  As  Felix 
took  her  hand  to  bid  her  good-bye,  she  said  : 

'  By  the  way,  what  are  you  doing  with  yourself  in  London?' 

Felix  told  her  about  joining  Sam's  school.  Although  they 
had  spent  two  hours  together  he  had  forgotten  to  mention  it 
before.     She  had  made  him  think  of  her  and  forget  himself. 

'  Mr.  Carringbridge  ! '  she  said.     '  Oh,  I  have  met  him.' 

'  Do  you  like  him  ?  ' 

'  He 's  very  intelligent,'  she  answered.     '  So  you  're  with  him.' 

She  sto"d  near  the  door  at  which  he  was  going  out  looking  at 
him  thoughtfully,  almost  suspiciously. 

'What  is  it?'  he  asked,  with  keen  interest. 

'Oh,  I  was  only  thinking  that  there  are  a  great  many 
influences  at  work  on  yon  now  besides  the  Balzac  influence,' 
she  answered.  'There  's  Mr.  Carringbridge's,  King  Marshall's  ' 
— Felix  hnd  toM  her  of  his  interview  with  the  novelist  in  Mr. 
Ismey 's  office,  but  not  of  the  novelist's  subsequent  confession — 
'my  husband's  perhaps,  Carrie's ' 

'And  yours,'  he  said.     'Yours.' 

She  touched  the  book  he  was  holding  carefully. 

'And  now  Marza's.  I  wonder  if  I  am  wrong  to  give  you 
that  book.     Never  mind.' 


218  FELIX 

Felix  had  thought  of  going  again  to  church  that  evening. 
The  habit  of  church-going  clung  to  him  still,  and,  besides,  he 
loved  church  music  when  it  was  good.  But  now  he  was  eager, 
having  met  Marza,  to  read  Cenere.  Directly  he  got  home  he 
began  it.  He  read  till  late  in  the  night  and  finished  it.  While 
he  was  reading  it,  still  more  when  he  had  finished  it,  he  under- 
stood Mrs.  Ismey's  denunciation  of  the  novelist.  It  was  the 
history  of  an  intrigue  between  a  man  and  a  woman  of  talent, 
an  intrigue  apparently  begun  by  both  under  the  influence  of 
real  passion.  But  the  man  was  an  incurable  egoist.  He  con- 
sidered everything  in  life  strictly  in  relation  to  himself.  He 
appreciated  everything  simply  as  it  affected  him.  His  worship 
of  self  was  a  monomania.  He  justified  it  in  everlasting  tirades, 
immensely  subtle,  immensely  brilliant,  and  immensely  abomin- 
able. The  woman  acquiesced  for  a  long  time  in  this  self-worship 
of  her  lover,  but  at  last  she  could  bear  it  no  longer.  She,  who 
had  for  so  long  sacrificed  herself,  at  last  woke  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  was  due  by  her  to  herself.  She  turned  upon  the 
man,  poured  out  her  soul  in  a  speech  of  impassioned  invective, 
and  left  him,  so  she  said,  for  ever.  At  the  close  of  the  book, 
after  striving  in  vain  to  endure  a  solitary  life,  she  crawled  back, 
like  a  dog,  to  the  feet  of  the  man,  begged  his  forgiveness,  and 
entreated  to  be  permitted  to  enter  his  life  once  more,  since  she 
could  not  exist  without  him.  But  the  man  declared  that  he 
had  learnt  that  it  was  possible  to  live  without  her,  to  live  for 
and  in  art,  in  art  which  cannot  reproach,  which  cannot  make 
scenes,  which  can  satisfy,  uplift,  soothe,  and  permanently  inspire 
passion.  He  had  learnt  that  he  could  only  be  unselfish  for  that 
one  mistress's  sake,  and  that  only  in  such  unselfishness  was  he 
really  happy.  He  refused  to  receive  the  woman  back.  She 
threw  herself  into  the  Tiber.  In  the  final  pages  the  hero,  in  a 
most  exalted  cerebral  condition,  was  engaged  in  planning  a 
monument  to  her  memory,  which,  in  its  exquisite  beauty,  was 
to  surpass  all  the  monuments  of  the  past.  In  impassioned 
language  he  described  it  to  the  sculptor  who  was  to  carry  out 
hisideas  as  his  tribute  to  the  only  woman  who  had  ever  loved 
utterly  since  the  beginning  of  time.  But  it  was  impossible  not 
to  realise  that  he  really  thought  of  it  as  a  lasting  memorial,  not 
of  his  grief,  or  of  his  adoration  of  the  creature  who  had  died  for 
him,  but  simply  of  his  superior  taste  and  culture.  When  he  was 
dust  men  would  point  to  it  and  murmur  his  name,  while  the 
woman  to  whom  it  was  nominally  raised  would  be  forgotten. 
And  why  not?  She  had  only  known  how  to  love  another, 
while  he,  the  man,  had  known  how  to  love  himself. 


FELIX  219 

Felix  was  startled,  was  almost  dazed  by  the  continual 
brilliance  of  the  book.  The  intimate  knowledge  of  an  almost 
endless  variety  of  subjects  shown  by  the  author  astounded  him. 
The  poetical  beauty  of  the  descriptions,  the  heat  and  eloquence 
of  the  love-scenes,  fascinated  him  and  stirred  him.  But  the 
egoism  of  the  hero  disgusted  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it 
was  the  egoism  not  only  of  the  hero  but  of  the  hero's  creator. 
This  pitiless  selfishness  was,  he  felt  certain,  the  pitiless  selfish- 
ness of  Marza  himself.  And  all  his  young  sympathies  were  with 
the  wretched  woman  and  against  the  man  for  whom  she  died. 

Yet  as  he  undressed  to  get  into  bed  his  intellect  fell  on  its 
knees  before  Marza.     It  was  only  his  heart  that  rejected  him. 

After  he  had  put  out  the  electric  light,  he  lay  awake  for  some 
time.  In  these  last  two  days  he  had  begun  really  to  feel  some- 
thing of  that  which  he  had  expected  to  feel  in  the  centre  and 
the  heart  of  the  world.  The  torch  was  being  set  to  that  fire 
which  had  been  laid  within  him  by  invisible  forces,  by  forces 
which,  despite  his  bringing-up  in  a  religion,  he  felt  that  he 
could  not  guess  at.  His  intellect  was  waking  up.  Would  his 
heart  slumber  on?  He  did  not  ask  himself  the  question.  But 
he  was  conscious  of  the  various  influences  which  Mrs.  Ismey 
had  spoken  of,  and  knew  himself  to  be  sensitively  responsive  to 
all  influences. 

The  boy,  who  had  been  so  imitative  of  the  physical  peculi- 
arities of  others,  was  now  set  face  to  face  with  a  far  more  subtle 
temptation  than  that  of  rcjiroducing  any  bodily  grace  or  afflic- 
tion. Would  he  be  able  to  resist  playing  the  monkey  to  the 
minds  of  others  ?  Would  he  be  strong  enough  to  keep  his  soul 
a  free  thing  ? 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

ON  the  following  Saturday  Felix  had  resolved  to  go  to 
Churston  Waters.  He  did  not  know,  during  the  week, 
whether  he  wanted  to  go  or  not.  His  mother  had  not  said  any- 
thing about  it,  though  she  had  written  expressing  her  gladness 
that  he  was  happy  at  Sam's.  She  had  not  said  anything,  but 
Felix,  when  he  had  read  her  letter,  felt  something  of  her  loneli- 
ness. He  realised  her  by  herself  in  the  house  which  had  been 
the  home  of  her  husband  and  children,  of  all  she  loved  in  the 
world.  The  gentle  cheerfulness  of  her  letter  did  not  deceive 
him.  She  spoke  of  going  to  bed  very  early  '  now.'  That  last 
little  word,  which  had  surely  slipped  on  to  the  paper  almost 
involuntarily,  told  a  good  deal  of  the  desolate  evenings  when 
the  darkness  fell,  of  the  solitary  dinner,  the  empty  drawing-room 
afterwards.  And  then  his  mother  was  so  nervous.  He  had 
never  thought  of  that  before.  She  was  afraid  of  burglars.  Any 
noise  in  the  night  which  she  could  not  understand  sent  terrors 
trooping  through  her  heart.  Now  she  slept  all  alone  on  the  big 
landing,  from  which  opened  the  rooms  Margot  and  he  had 
formerly  occupied. 

'  Poor  old  mater ! '  he  thought.  '  It  is  a  beastly  shame  your 
being  all  by  yourself.' 

He  sat  down  and  wrote  to  say  that  he  would  come  by  the 
early  afternoon  train  on  Saturday.  When  he  sealed  the  letter 
he  felt  magnanimous.  Sam  had  told  him  to  analyse  himself, 
but  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  analyse  that  feeling.  He 
worked  rather  hard  that  week.  He  resolved  that  he  would  not 
be  one  of  Sam's  'damned  fools,'  and  in  spite  of  the  merry  chaff 
of  his  light-hearted  companions  he  used  a  great  deal  of  Sam's 
ink.  His  meeting  with  King  Marshall  and  Marza  had  fired  his 
young  ambition.  They  had  not  risen  to  be  powers  in  the  world 
by  smoking  cigarettes  and  telling  funny  stories.  He  took 
Chalmers  as  an  example  in  diligence,  and  was  generally  con- 
demned by  his  fellows  as  a  '  blasted  sweater.'  Sam,  whom  he 
bothered  almost  as  much  as  did  the  ex-piano-tuner,  smiled  upon 
his  efforts  most  serenely. 

220 


FELIX  221 

*  There  will  be  no  need  for  you  to  acquire  short  h-and,  Mr. 
Wilding,'  he  said  one  day,  after  reading  one  of  Felix's  articles 
and  showing  him  how  much  better  it  might  have  been  if  it  had 
been  written,  say,  by  Mr.  Samuel  Carringbridge. 

This  was  a  high  compliment,  since  it  implied  that  Felix 
would  be  able  to  earn  his  living  in  journalism  without  being  a 
reporter,  if  he  had  to  earn  his  living  at  all. 

'As  to  whether  that  is  obligatory  on  you  of  course  I  have  no 
idea,'  Sam  added,  after  a  radiant  allusion  to  the  poor  circum- 
stances of  the  average  youthful  journalist.  '  Do  not  tell  me,  I 
entreat.  My  business  is  not  with  the  private  affairs  of  my 
pupils.  I  have  only  to  endeavour — when  they  wish  it — to  so 
train  them  that  they  will  be  able  in  the  future  to  avoid  actual 
starvation.' 

He  smiled  meditatively  at  his  exquisitely  varnished  boots. 

'  I  have  managed  to  avoid  it  someh-ow,'  he  added  reflectively. 

Felix  had  now  read  some  of  his  articles,  and  admired  his 
mastery  of  buoyant  prose.  There  was  little  delicacy  in  his 
writings;  but  there  was  force  of  a  sometimes  rather  vulgar  kind  ; 
there  was  picturesqueness,  rhetorical  eloquence,  and  a  great 
deal  of  humour  and  sarcasm.  His  emotional  flights  did  not 
touch  Felix.  The  want  of  heart  in  them,  to  which  he  had 
himself  indirectly  alluded  in  his  lecture  on  the  art  of  journalism, 
kept  Felix's  heart  from  any  response  to  their  highly  coloured 
fervour. 

Now  that  he  knew  Sam  better,  he  admired  his  intellect  more. 
His  shrewdness  was  quite  uncommon.  His  self-possession  was 
illimitable.  His  smiling  contempt  of  humanity  was  at  least 
entertaining,  for  he  included  himself  in  the  population  of  the 
world.  But  in  all  the  greater  qualities — in  sincerity,  pity,  charity, 
love — he  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  entirely  wanting.  He  was 
lazy  and  dazzling  and  beautifully  dressed. 

Felix  rather  liked  him,  but  did  not  stop  to  consider  whether 
his  influence  would  make  for  good  or  evil  if  it  were  felt  at  all. 

Her  son's  letter  announcing  his  arrival  on  Saturday  drew  a 
response  from  Mrs.  Wilding  so  full  of  genuine,  almost  thankful, 
happiness,  that  Felix  felt  a  warmth  in  his  heart  as  he  read  it. 
He  began  to  look  forward  to  Saturday.  His  mother  suggested 
that  probably  he  would  like  her  to  invite  Margot  and  Stephen 
over  to  dinner.  The  thought  of  Stephen  annoyed  and  chilled 
him.  But  he  must  see  Margot,  and  now,  he  supposed,  it  was 
impossible  to  see  her  without  seeing  her  husband  too.  That 
angered  him.  Why  on  earth  cnuld  she  not  have  gone  on  being 
Margot  Wilding?     As  he  wrote  a  postcard  to  his  mother  to  say 


222  FELIX 

that  he  hoped  she  would  invite  his  sister  and  brother-in-law,  he 
condemned  in  his  heart  his  sister's  incomprehensible  love  of 
change.     He  never  thought  of  his  own. 

'  On  the  Thursday  afternoon  of  that  week,  after  leaving  the 
school,  he  called  at  the  Carlton  Hotel  and  asked  if  Signor 
Marza  were  at  home.  He  felt  very  diffident,  even  nervous  in 
doing  this,  although  the  poet  had  told  him  to  come.  Perhaps 
he  would  not  have  called  had  it  not  been  for  his  walk  with 
King  Marshall  and  the  latter's  confession.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  sort  of  latent  fear  of  Marza  since  he  had  read  his  book, 
Cenere.  He  was  afraid  of  his  genius  as  he  had  never  been 
afraid  of  the  genius  of  Balzac.  For  Balzac  presented  human 
beings  working  out  their  fates.  Marza  presented  surely  himself, 
working  out  his  own  egoism,  while  the  lamps  of  poetry,  learning, 
passion,  pathos,  burned  to  light  him  at  his  task. 

Felix's  card  was  taken  up  while  he  waited  in  the  vestibule. 
Many  people  came  in  and  out,  left  cards,  took  the  keys  of  their 
rooms,  spoke  to  the  men  who  stood  behind  the  counters  looking 
composed  and  indifferent.  The  women  who  came  were  all  very 
smart.  They  walked  carefully  as  if  almost  afraid  of  their 
elaborate  costumes.  Felix  recognised  one  as  a  well-known 
young  actress.  She  wore  an  immense  hat  which  was  covered 
with  black  feathers.  They  protruded  over  the  brim,  curling 
inwards  as  if  trying  to  touch  her  painted  and  pov/dered  cheeks. 
As  she  entered  the  vestibule  she  glanced  quickly  round  with 
her  bright,  artificial  eyes  to  see  if  she  were  being  noticed.  One 
of  her  hands  was  bare,  and  covered  with  rings.  The  pink  nails 
of  the  fingers  were  so  highly  polished  that  they  glistened.  She 
took  a  key  from  the  attendant  and  rustled  out.  As  she  passed 
Felix  she  glanced  at  him  with  a  sort  of  sly  defiance.  He  was 
wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  perfume.  He  looked  after  her  feeling 
half  fascinated,  half  sickened. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  the  man  to  whom  he  had  given  his 
card  returned,  and  asked  him  to  come  up  to  Signor  Marza's 
room.  They  mounted  in  a  noiseless  lift,  went  down  a  long 
corridor  with  a  thick  carpet,  past  brown  doors  with  gilt  numbers 
and  many  piles  of  huge  trunks,  turned  a  corner,  and  came  to  a 
door  on  which  the  attendant  knocked.  After  a  moment  he 
opened  it,  and  showed  Felix  into  a  sitting-room  which  was  full 
of  roses.  They  stood  in  jars  on  a  writing-table  near  a  fire,  on 
another  table  covered  with  books  and  newspapers  of  different 
countries,  on  the  high  mantelpiece,  on  two  cabinets  which  were 
loaded  with  china  and  signed  photographs  and  bits  of  old 
silver.     Felix  thought  he  had  never  seen  so  many  roses  in  a 


FELIX  223 

small  room  before.  A  large  cage  was  placed  on  a  stand  near 
the  drawn  window-curtains.  The  door  of  it  was  open,  and  the 
cage  itself  was  empty.  When  he  had  come  quite  into  the  room, 
Felix  saw  that  two  canaries  were  flying  about  in  it.  One 
fluttered  over  his  head,  alighted  on  the  pole  from  which  the 
curtains  hung,  and  observed  him  with  its  round,  bright  eyes. 
It  turned  its  little  narrow  head  about  swiftly  on  its  supple  neck, 
as  if  in  a  paroxysm  of  observation.  There  was  a  door  in  the 
wall  on  the  left  hand  opening  into  a  second  room,  and  Marza 
came  in  from  this  room  almost  immediately. 

He  had  on  a  black  silk  smoking-jacket  unbuttoned,  and  held 
a  very  long  and  large  cigarette  in  his  hand.  The  attendant  was 
just  going  out  as  he  entered,  and  as  he  shook  hands  with  Felix 
he  glanced  hastily  round  the  room. 

'Are  both  the  birds  here?'  he  said  to  Felix  in  French. 

'  Yes,'  said  Felix. 

'Where  is  Caterina?'  asked  Marza.  *!  can  only  see 
Peppino.' 

'There,'  said  Felix,  pointing  to  the  little  vagrant  on  the 
curtain-rod,  who  was  still  turning  her  head  this  way  and  that 
with  a  ceaseless  swiftness. 

Marza  looked  relieved.  He  smiled.  Directly  he  smiled  he 
was  charming.  Like  many  Sicilians  he  smiled  with  his  eyes. 
The  lower  part  of  his  face  scarcely  altered,  but  southern 
sunshine  came  out  in  his  eyes,  and  little  lines  of  gaiety  and 
kindness  appeared  on  his  cheeks  beneath  them. 

'  I  am  so  afraid  of  their  escaping,'  he  said.     '  Do  sit  down.' 

'  I  hope  I  am  not  disturbing  you,'  Felix  said,  sitting  down  in 
a  chair  near  the  fire. 

'  Not  at  all.     Peppe  !     Peppe  ! ' 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  Peppino  and  chirruped.  When  he 
did  that  he  looked  like  a  boy,  almost  like  a  child.  The  little 
bird  would  not  come  to  him.  He  tried  to  persuade  Peppe,  throw- 
ing himself  into  the  task  with  an  abandon  that  fascinated  Felix. 
He  whistled  shrilly,  bending  forward  and  holding  out  his  arm 
like  a  branch  for  the  bird  to  alight  on.  A  wooing  expression 
came  into  his  face.  It  was  obvious  that  his  whole  heart  was 
summoning  the  bird.  At  length,  after  chirping  once  or  twice 
as  if  in  reply  to  him,  and  fluttering  his  pale-yellow  wings 
anxiously,  Peppe  flew  to  him  and  perched  on  his  slioulder  near  his 
neck.  At  once  Caterina,  as  if  seized  with  jealousy,  flew  down 
also  from  her  curtain-rod,  and  alighted  on  his  outstretched  arm 
close  to  his  wrist.  He  glided  towards  the  cage,  looking  at  Felix 
sideways  with  a  cautious  smile  that  hardly  dared  to  be  a  smile 


224  FELIX 

lest  it  should  frighten  the  birds  away.  At  that  moment  Felix, 
aware  of  his  briUiant  intellect  and  of  his  fame,  and  a  witness  of 
his  utter  lack  of  self-consciousness  and  almost  absurd  triumph 
in  his  power  over  the  naughty  canaries,  was  completely  fas- 
cinated by  him.  Having  reached  the  cage  Marza  put  in  his 
arm  through  the  door,  dipping  it  down  so  that  Caterina's  tufted 
head  should  not  touch  the  wire.  She  fluttered  up,  and  began 
quickly  pecking  at  some  seed.  Then  Marza,  with  a  most 
delicate  swiftness,  lifted  his  hand  to  his  neck,  imprisoned 
Peppino  lightly,  put  him  too  in  the  cage,  and  gently  shut  the 
door. 

As  he  came  to  sit  down  by  the  fire  he  looked  radiant  at  his 
success. 

*  Do  have  a  cigarette,'  he  said,  handing  one  to  Felix.  *I  may 
talk  to  you  in  French  I  know.  You  are  not  ignorant  of  it  like 
that  poor  Monsieur  Marshall.' 

Felix  flushed. 

'You  know  Mr.  Marshall  does  not  understand  French?' 

'  Naturally.  That  is  why  I  spoke  it  so  much  the  other  night. 
If  I  had  talked  in  English  he  would  have  been  shocked,  he 
would  have  contradicted,  have  argued,  have  ruined  my  effect 
with  his  heavy  pessimism.  His  ugly  blackness  would  have 
spoilt  all  the  loveliness  of  mine,  as  his  dreadful  books  spoil  all 
the  loveliness  of  love,  despair,  everything  he  writes  about.' 

Felix  was  shocked  at  hearing  such  a  man  as  King  Marshall 
spoken  of  with  such  utter  contempt. 

'  But  how  did  you  know  Mr.  Marshall  couldn't  understand 
French  ? '  he  said.     '  He  asked  me  to  tell  you.' 

'  Indeed  !  Well,  I  suspected  it.  I  spoke  a  sentence.  He 
began  to  crumble  the  bread.     I  knew.' 

Felix  thought  he  was  disgusted  by  the  blunt  cruelty  shown  by 
the  poet.  Yet  afterwards  he  knew  that  Marza  had  fascinated 
him  so  much  that  he  had  not  been  really  disgusted.  To  sit 
with  Marza  was  like  sitting  with  the  south,  with  the  fire  and  the 
radiance  of  summer,  where  the  shadows  are  the  shadows  of  old 
olive-trees,  and  the  silence  is  the  blue  silence  that  falls  from 
cloudless  skies. 

'It  is  so  easy  to  know,' he  continued.  'And  yet  there  are 
people,  like  my  Lady  Enfield,  who  sit  as  if  they  had  seen 
Medusa  when  one  shows  any  knowledge.  It  would  be  strange, 
if  anything  were  strange.  But  nothing  is  after  one  has  lived 
for  twenty — '  He  looked  at  Felix,  stopped,  then  corrected 
himself  with  mischief  that  was  meant  to  be  obvious — '  thirty 
years.' 


FELIX  225 

*  A  good  many  things  seem  strai.^e  to  me,'  said  Felix. 

It  made  him  very  hai)py  to  speak  French  again,  and  almost 
transported  him  to  La  Maison  des  Alouettes. 

'The  right  hand  of  Mrs.  Ismey,  for  instance,'  said  Marza. 

Felix  started  as  if  he  had  been  struck  hard  with  a  whip. 

'Or  Mr.  Ismey's  eyes,'  Marza  continued,  smiling  again  with 
his  eyes  as  he  had  smiled  over  Caterina  and  Peppino.  '  They 
do  not  seem  strange  to  my  Lady  Enfield,  because  she  does  not 
see  them.  But  you  do.  That  is  why  I  asked  you  to  come  and 
call  on  me.  So  many  people  call  upon  me  in  London.  They 
come  because  I  am  so  celebrated,  and  they  think  me  a  monster. 
Every  one  speaks  against  me  and  is  anxious  to  know  me.  I 
shall  not  stay  long.  I  never  stay  long  among  the  barbarians. 
And  you  live  among  them,  I  suppose.     Do  you  like  it?' 

'But  do  you  mean  that  London  is  a  city  of  barbarians?' 
said  Felix. 

He  was  glad  that  Marza  had  so  rapidly  passed  on  from  his 
startling  remark  about  the  Ismeys,  and  yet  longed  to  be  able 
to  question  him.  It  was  evident  that  the  poet  had  in  a  moment 
pierced  to  the  heart  of  things  in  that  household.  All  that  had 
so  puzzled  Felix  must  be  clear  to  him.  Directly  he  realised 
this  Felix  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  thrill  of  anger.  He  did 
not  know  why  he  was  angry.  As  he  sat  with  Marza  his  emotions 
came  and  went  without  his  really  comprehending  why. 

'  To  me  it  is  as  New  York  is,  and  Chicago,  and  even  Boston 
with  its  childish  happiness  and  pride  in  its  own  culture.  Boston 
is  Uke  a  httle  boy  that  has  on  kid  gloves  for  the  first  time.  It 
runs  about  showing  them  to  all  the  servants.  London  has  no 
gloves  on,  but  it  claps  its  big  red  hands  quite  shamelessly  and 
thinks  its  toilette  is  complete.  You  should  live  in  Rome,  and  if 
you  cannot  do  that,  in  Paris.     Why  don't  you?' 

'Well,  you  see  1  have  my  mother,'  said  Felix.  'She  lives  in 
England.' 

Marza  lit  another  of  the  long  cigarettes.  He  stood  up  to  do 
so,  as  the  matches  were  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  when  he  spoke 
again  he  remained  standing.  Felix  noticed  that  his  fingers  were 
very  pointed  and  that  his  wrists  were  abnormally  small.  He 
was  a  man  with  little  bones,  but  he  looked  immensely  active. 
Not  only  his  eyes  and  his  features  but  his  limbs  were  full  of 
intelligence. 

'Why  will  the  young  generation  allow  itself  to  be  hobbled  by 

the  old?'  exclaimed  Marza,  using  the  French  word,  entravcr. 

'It  reminds  me  of  the  one  goat  in  the  herd — there  is  always  one 

—the  naughty  goat  which,  unlike  the  others,  loves  to  investigate 

P 


226  FELIX 

that  part  of  the  sunny  hillside  which  is  far  away  from  the  goat* 
herd's  piping,  the  goat  that  is  tired  of  the  sound  of  the  tarantella, 
and  so  has  its  front  and  hind  legs  tied  together  with  a  frayed 
cord.  You  are  tired  of  the  tarantella.  Of  course  you  are.  But 
you  let  the  old  generation  hobble  you  with  the  frayed  cord.  It 
is  such  a  pity  !' 

When  Marza  said  'It  is  such  a  pity!'  an  expression  that 
seemed  to  be  an  expression  of  real  grief  came  into  his  face,  and 
he  stretched  out  his  left  hand  towards  Felix  with  an  appealing 
gesture.  Felix  sat  looking  at  him  in  silence.  His  last  words 
had  made  a  deep  impression  :  'You  are  tired  of  the  tarantella.' 
Felix  did  not  know  Sicily.  The  whole  simile,  the  little  picture 
so  swiftly  painted  in  words,  was  definitely  Sicilian.  And  yet  how 
perfectly  it  suggested  to  Felix  his  own  experience  at  Churston 
Waters  on  the  evening  of  his  return  from  France.  The  taran- 
tella had  been  piped  to  him  then,  the  tarantella  of  the  English 
country  village  where  he  was  born.  The  old  generation  had 
piped  it  to  him  and  he  was  tired  of  it.  He  wanted  something 
new,  something  different.  He  Ionised  to  wander  further  up  the 
mountain-side.  As  he  sat  thinking  this,  and  still  haunted  by 
the  sound  of  the  poet's  words,  which  floated  in  his  imagination 
like  music  in  the  air,  his  face  must  have  been  expressive  of  his 
thought,  for  Marza  said  : 

'You  have  wished  to  wander.     You  wish  to  wander  still.' 

'Yes,'  said  Felix. 

He  began  suddenly  to  feel  that  at  last  he  was  with  some  one 
who  really  understood  him.  Marza,  by  his  words,  but  still  more 
by  something  indefinable  in  his  personality,  called  to  the  gates 
of  the  boy's  soul  all  the  romance  that  lay  hidden  in  the  dark 
places  behind  them.  His  power  of  doing  this  was  the  cause  ol 
his  power  over  women.  He  was  not  at  all  handsome,  but  those 
who  were  with  him  invariably  forgot  to  think  about  that.  They 
had  no  time  to  notice  the  glass  since  the  flame  that  burnt 
behind  it  was  so  vivid. 

'Well,  do  what  you  wish.  Get  away  from  the  tarantella. 
Don't  think  it  your  duty  to  stay  listening  to  it  for  ever.  The 
cord  is  frayed.  Break  it.  I  never  hesitated  to  do  so.  That  is 
why  the  old  generation  hates  and  fears  me.  Take  note  of  this. 
If  you  hear  me  discussed  in  the  world  where  people  read  and 
think  you  will  always  hear  the  old  people,  the  generation  that 
has  said  its  say,  and  done  its  work,  and  made  its  impression, 
denouncing  me.  When  I  have  a  moment  of  dismay  —  all 
artists  have  such  moments — when  for  an  instant  I  doubt  whether 
I  have  any  value,  whether  I  have  any  power  to  bring  forth  what 


FELIX  227 

is  fresh,  whether  I  have  any  progressive  faculty,  that  is,  I  listen 
to  the  denunciations  of  the  old  generation  and  I  take  courage. 
The  measure  of  the  old  generation's  hatred  of  me  is  the  measure 
also  of  my  value  for  the  new.' 

He  suddenly  lifted  both  his  hands  to  his  lips  and,  with  his 
pointed  fingers,  violently  twisted  up  the  ends  of  his  moustache. 
The  gesture  was  pugnacious.  Felix  felt  tremendously  excited. 
To  sit  alone  with  a  man  of  Marza's  fame,  and  to  hear  such 
intimate  talk  as  this,  was  for  him  a  most  glorious  experience. 
The  obvious  audacity  of  the  poet's  mind  enthralled  him.  Marza's 
freedom  seemed  for  the  moment  to  be  his  own  freedom.  The 
sound  of  the  door  into  the  corridor  opening  gave  him  a  painful 
sensation.  It  was  followed  by  a  rustling  noise.  Felix  turned 
round,  saw  a  lady  coming  into  the  room,  and  sprang  up. 

The  visitor,  who  had  evidently  let  herself  in  with  a  key  which 
she  was  holding  in  her  gloved  hand,  was  very  young,  apparently 
a  girl  of  about  seventeen,  and  extremely  beautiful.  Felix 
thought  that  she  too  must  be  a  Sicilian  like  Marza.  She  had  an 
oval  face,  lit  up  by  immense  dark  eyes,  in  which  light  seemed 
swimming,  a  childish,  rather  helpless,  but  lovely  mouth,  and 
thick,  wavy,  dark  hair.  Her  figure  had  all  the  thin,  flat  grace 
of  scarcely  budding  youth,  that  grace  which  makes  old  and 
experienced  goodness  feel  full  of  tenderness  and  fear.  When 
Felix  saw  her  fully  he  felt  sure  at  once  that  she  had  been  born  a 
woman  of  the  people,  although  she  was  beautifully  dressed  in  a 
sable  coat,  with  an  exquisitely  impudent  little  black  hat,  under 
the  curled-up  brim  of  which  was  tucked  a  vivid  scarlet  flower 
against  her  hair.  Maiza  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised  by  her 
entrance. 

'  Ah,  Nunziata,'  he  said,  coming  from  the  fire  to  take  a  small 
parcel  which  she  was  carrying  from  the  girl's  hand.  '  What  is 
this?  Another  jewel  ?  You  should  not  buy  jewels  without  me. 
You  know  your  taste  is — well,  uncertain.' 

He  smiled  at  the  girl  with  a  sort  of  half-contemptuous,  and 
yet  affectionate  indulgence,  put  up  his  hand  and  gently  touched 
her  soft,  round  chin.     She  niade  a  little  motic  at  him. 

'Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Wilding  to  you,'  said  Marza. 

He  still  spoke  French. 

The  girl  looked  at  Felix  and  nodded,  prettily  but  carelessly. 

'  It  is  hot  in  here,'  she  said  to  Marza  in  bad  French.  '  I  must 
go  and  take  off  my  things.  ICxcuse  me,  please  ! '  she  added  to 
Felix,  with  a  smile  which  lit  up  all  her  face. 

Her  manner  was  fascinating,  and  yet  there  was  something 
common,  something  fainily  coarse  in  it  which  startled  Felix. 


228  FELIX 

She  went  up  to  the  cage  of  Peppino  and  Caterina,  knelt  down 
swiftly,  with  the  delicious  suppleness  of  youth,  took  a  bit  of 
sugar  from  between  the  bars,  put  it  into  her  mouth,  and  pressed 
her  face  against  the  cage.  The  two  canaries  came  sidling  along 
the  perch,  looked  away  from  the  sugar,  turned  swiftly,  pecked  at 
it,  and  looked  away  again.  Felix  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anything  more  nervousiy  coquettish.  The  girl  laughed,  got  up 
with  a  sort  of  languid  strength,  smiled  at  Felix  again,  and  went 
into  the  inner  room,  eating  the  sugar.  He  heard  her  rustling 
about  there,  and  opening  and  shutting  drawers.  He  wondered 
very  much  who  she  was.  Perhaps  she  was  Marza's  wife.  Felix 
did  not  know  whether  he  was  married  or  not. 
'  Isn't  she  beautiful  ? '  Marza  said. 

*  Yes,  very,'  Felix  answered. 

Something  in  the  intonation  of  the  poet's  voice  when  he  said 
that  suddenly  made  Felix  feel  sure  that  the  girl  was  not  his 
wife. 

'She's  quite  clever,  too,'  Marza  continued.  'And  yet — well, 
in  spite  of  all  I  have  shown  her,  all  I  have  taught  her,  I  shall 
not  be  surprised  if  some  day  she  marries  a  handsome  peasant  of 
her  own  country,  Girgenti.  Or  she  may  drift  through  the  half- 
world.  They  generally  do  when  they  have  such  faces  as  hers. 
But — I  don't  know.  Nunziata  has  something  of  her  native  soil 
in  her.     I  believe  she  will  go  back  to  Girgenti.' 

'  Nino  ! '  cried  a  soft  voice  from  the  inner  room. 

*  Yes,'  said  Marza,  going  towards  the  door. 

*  I  am  going  to  change  my  gown.     Just  shut  the  door.' 
Marza  looked  into  the  room,  said  something  which  Felix  did 

not  hear,  laughed,  and  shut  the  door.     Felix  said  : 

'  I  'm  afraid  I  have  stayed  an  awful  time.     I  must  be  going.' 
He  spoke  in  a  constrained  voice.     He  felt  fearfully  shy  and 
guilty  too.     Why  he  felt  guilty  he  never  knew.     But  he  did,  and 
he  knew  that  he  must  be  looking  guilty  as  he  spoke.     Marza  did 
not  try  to  detain  him. 

'Good-bye,' he  said.  'And  do  not  think  yourself  bound  to 
keep  on  listening  to  the  tarantella.  Do  not  think  yourself 
bound  to  do  anything  that  you  hate.  Every  time  we  do  any- 
thing that  we  hate  we  do  ourselves  an  injury.  We  cut  our- 
selves with  knives  and  lancets,  like  those  mad  priests  of  Baal, 
whom  no  God  answered.' 

While  he  said  this  he  looked  very  grave.  His  pale  face  was 
even  earnest.  But  directly  he  had  finished  speaking  the  little 
lines  formed  themselves  in  his  cheeks  under  his  eyes,  and  the 
eyes  themselves  smiled. 


FELIX  229 

Felix  turned  away,  but,  as  Marza  was  shutting  the  door,  he 
glanced  back  and  saw  for  an  instant  the  many  colours  of  the 
roses  which  were  scattered  about  the  room.  They  symbolised 
for  him  just  then  the  many  colours  in  the  poet's  life.  As  he 
went  slowly  down  the  corridor  he  still  felt  guilty,  as  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  meet  any  one's  eyes,  even  a  stranger's.  His  memory  was 
full  of  the  sound  of  the  girl's  rustling  in  that  inner  room,  of  the 
sound  of  drawers  opening  and  shutting,  and  of  a  soft  voice 
calling  'Ninol' 


CHAPTER     XIX 

WHILE  Felix  packed  his  bag  on  Saturday  morning  he  felt 
as  if  years  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  his  people 
and  Churston  Waters.  He  threw  in  his  things  quickly.  He 
did  everything  more  quickly  in  London  than  in  the  country, 
though  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  As  he  pressed  down  his  clothes 
he  thought  of  Marza  and  of  the  girl  who  had  called  '  Nino.'  He 
had  been  thinking  of  them  a  great  deal  since  Thursday.  Marza 
was  to  him  half  a  hero,  half  a  villain.  Whether  the  heroic  or 
the  villainous  half  attracted  him  most  he  could  not  tell.  He 
wondered  what  Mrs.  Ismey  would  think  if  she  knew  about  the 
rustling  in  that  inner  room.  Would  she  be  shocked  ?  He 
longed  to  find  out,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not 
speak  to  her  about  such  a  subject  without  being  again  over- 
whelmed by  the  feeling  of  guilt  which  had  overtaken  him  in  the 
corridor  of  the  hotel.  There  was  confusion  not  only  in  his 
brain  but  in  his  heart,  and  a  great  longing  for — there  he  stopped. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  longed  for.  But  since  Thursday 
he  had  been  painfully  restless  and  uneasy.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  settle  to  anything.  He  had  done  scarcely  any  work 
at  Sam's.  Arliss  and  the  rest  had  been  able  to  welcome  him  to 
their  idle  conclave.  He  had  made  more  noise,  had  chattered 
more  than  any  one.  Yet  all  the  time  he  had  been  thinking  what 
babies  they  were.  Only  to  Paul  Chalmers  had  he  said  anything 
about  Marza.  When  Chalmers  heard  the  poet's  name  he 
looked  up  from  his  writing  with  a  start.  He  and  Felix  were,  for 
the  moment,  alone  in  the  writing-hall.  The  other  pupils  had 
not  come  back  from  lunch. 

'  Marza ! '  Chalmers  said,  mispronouncing  the  poet's  name ; 
'd'you  say  you  've  met  him,  Mr.  Wilding?' 

Chalmers  always  prefixed  Felix's  name  with  Mister,  although 
Felix  had  begged  him  not  to. 

*  Yes.     Have  you  read  anything  of  his  ?' 

•Ay,'  Chalmers  replied. 

He  seldom  said  yes.  He  helped  himself  to  a  large  chocolate 
cream  out  of  a  pink  cardboard  box  and  began  to  munch  it, 


FELIX  231 

staring  at  Felix  very  hard  with  his  large  eyes,  which  were  both 
fierce  and  sad. 

'Ay,'  repeated  Chalmers.  'You  see,  Mr.  Wilding,  one  must 
keep  abreast  of  the — the — of  the ' 

He  hesitated,  and  began  to  look  angry  and  confused. 

'What's  the  word  I  mean  ? '  he  said,  as  if  to  himself. 

'The  times  ?'  suggested  Felix. 

'  No,  no — the — of  modern  thought,  you  know.' 

»0h,  the  trend.' 

*  Ay,  that 's  it.  Well  abreast  of  the  trend  of  modern  thought. 
I  always  read  of  a  night.  I  've  been  through  Ibsen,  I  've  been 
through  Tolstoy,  and  now  I  'm  going  through  this  one  in  the 
translation.  It  don't  do  to  get  behind  the  trend  of  modern 
thought,  Mr.  Wilding,  not  if  you  want  to  make  a  name,  that  is.' 

Felix  looked  at  the  big,  dreary,  anxious  face,  at  the  paper 
protectors  over  the  wristbands  of  the  rusty  frock-coat,  and 
suddenly  felt  as  if  he  could  howl. 

'  No,  no,'  he  said,  'of  course  not.' 

He  turned  away,  took  out  some  manuscript  and  began  to  look 
over  it.  He  wished  he  had  not  mentioned  Marza  to  Chalmers. 
The  latter  went  on  staring  at  him  for  two  or  three  minutes,  then 
seized  his  pen  again  and  began  to  write  violently,  murmuring 
over  the  words  half  aloud  as  he  put  them  down  in  a  large, 
copperplate  hand,  with  many  deep  black  curls  and  dashes. 

Chalmers  and  Marza  !  Two  ambitions  !  Now  Felix  put  his 
black  silk  socks  into  a  corner  of  the  bag,  looked  round  to  see 
whether  everything  else  was  in,  locked  the  bag,  strapped  it, 
stretched  himself  and  went  to  the  window.  There  was  a  clock 
in  the  court.  It  was  just  one.  His  train  started  at  two-thirty 
and  he  meant  to  lunch  at  the  station.  There  was  plenty  of  time. 
But  he  felt  in  a  hurry,  and  decided  to  have  a  cab  called  and  to 
start  at  once.  He  walked  into  the  sitting-room,  went  to  the 
tube  by  which  he  communicated  with  the  servants  in  the  base- 
ment, and  was  just  putting  his  lips  to  it  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door. 

'Come  in  ! '  he  said,  looking  round. 

The  porter  appeared. 

'There's  a  lady  to  see  you,  sir.* 

*  A  lady  ! '  said  Felix,  surprised.     '  Is  it  my  mother?' 
He  felt  suddenly  as  if  it  must  be. 

'No,  sir,  a  youngish  lady,'  said  the  porter.     'She's  waiting 
downstairs  to  know  if  you  're  in.     She  wouldn't  give  no  name.' 
Felix  wondered  who  it  could  be. 
'I  'm  just  going  to  the  station,'  he  said. 


232  FELIX 

•Yes,  sir.     I  told  the  lady  I  thought  you  was.* 

'Never  mind.     Ask  her  to  come  up.' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

The  man  went  away  and  Felix  stood  where  he  was,  still 
wondering  very  much  who  the  '  youngish  lady '  could  be.  He 
thought  of  Marza's  companion.  But  it  was  impossible  that  she 
would  call  on  him.  Mrs.  Ismey  ?  No,  he  felt  quite  positive  it 
was  not  she.     He  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress. 

'  The  lady,  sir,'  said  the  porter's  voice. 

Mrs.  Ismey  walked  in  quickly.  Directly  the  door  was  shut 
she  held  out  her  hand  and  said  : 

'  Did  you  guess  who  the  nuisance  was  ?  ' 

*  No,'  said  Felix.     '  I  'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you.' 

*  What  a  little  duck  of  a  room,  all  green  and  idols,  just  what  I 
love.' 

She  walked  round  it,  touched  the  ornaments,  looked  into  the 
mirror,  then  at  Mrs.  Wilding's  photograph,  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  mantelpiece. 

'  Your  mother  ! '  she  said.  'What  a  good  one.  It's  a  dear 
face.' 

She  took  it  up,  then  immediately  put  it  down  again. 

'  I  don't  know  why,  but  good  people  always  photograph  better 
than  wicked  ones,'  she  said.  'I  suppose  wickedness  is  more 
elusive  than  virtue.' 

Her  voice  sounded  flippant.  Her  whole  manner  was  fidgety, 
and  made  Felix  feel  what  he  called  jumpy.  She  was  dressed  in 
a  pale-blue  cloth  gown  trimmed  with  fur,  and  wore  a  white  veil. 
As  she  stood  by  the  mantelpiece  for  a  moment,  with  her  back 
turned  to  him,  Felix  noticed  that  the  veil  was  very  badly  tied,  as 
if  it  had  been  put  on  in  a  great  hurry.  One  end  hung  down 
and  moved  with  the  movement  of  her  head.  At  one  side  of  the 
veil,  too,  there  was  a  rent.  Felix  longed  to  tell  her  of  these  two 
facts.  He  began  to  feel  as  if  her  appearance  were  of  great 
importance,  and  hated  anything  in  it  which  might  be  censured 
by  an  unfriendly  critic.  He  was  very  glad  that  Marza  was  not 
there  to  notice  the  veil. 

'What's  the  m;itter?'  she  suddenly  said,  turning  round. 

'Nothing,' he  exclaimed  with  uneasy  emphasis.  'Do  please 
sit  down.' 

'  No,  no.     I  want  you  to  take  me  out  to  lunch.     Will  you  ? ' 

'  I  shall  be  delighted,  but — I  say,  will  you  mind  very  much 
lunching  at  Charing  Cross?' 

'  Charing  Cross  ! '  she  said.     '  My  dear  boy  1 ' 

She  looked  whimsically  surprised. 


FELIX  233 

*No,  no.  It  doesn't  matter.  Of  course  you  wouldn't  care  to. 
It  was  only  that  I  have  to  catch  a  train  at  half-past  two.  I  'm 
going  down  to  my  mother's.' 

'Well,  but  there 's  plenty  of  time.  We  can  go  to  Prince's  and 
you  can  easily  manage  it.  Send  on  your  luggage  and  tell  the 
man  to  bring  the  ticket  to  Prince's.' 

*  Yes,  of  course.     I  '11  get  my  hat.' 

Suddenly  he  stopped  as  he  was  near  the  door. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  she  asked  very  sweetly,  with  that  sort  of 
definite  sweetness  which  often  covers  feminine  irritation. 

'These  clothes.     I  can't  go  with  you  in  country  clothes.' 

'Nonsense.  They  suit  you.  Get  your  hat.  The  carriage  is 
waiting.' 

Felix  hurried  into  his  bedroom,  feeling  half  delighted,  half 
uncomfortable.  He  loved  the  way  she  took  possession  of  him, 
simply  loved  it.  She  seemed  to  look  upon  him  as  her  property. 
That  suggested  an  intimacy  which  set  him  in  a  glow.  And  yet 
he  was  a  little  uncomfortable.  That  train — his  mother  would 
probably  drive  to  Frankton  Wells  in  the  carriage  to  meet  him. 
He  did  not  wish  to  lose  the  train.  But,  as  Mrs.  Ismey  said, 
there  was  plenty  of  time  if  they  went  at  once.  He  caught  up 
his  hat  and  gloves,  whistled  for  the  porter,  gave  directions  about 
taking  the  bag  to  the  station  and  bringing  the  ticket  to  the 
restaurant,  and  then  hurried  back  to  the  sitting-room.  Mrs. 
Ismey  was  looking  into  the  court,  holding  back  the  little,  dull, 
green  blind  which  was  stretched  across  the  lower  half  of  the 
window  with  one  hand. 

'Ah!'  she  said.  'Good  boy!  Don't  be  afraid,  you  shall 
catch  your  train.  I  know  how  disappointed  your  mother  will 
be  if  you  don't.' 

'Well,  you  see,  she  might  drive  to  the  station  to  meet  me 
and ' 

'  I  know.     I  like  you  for  thinking  of  her.     Come  along.' 

Felix  wondered  why,  as  he  followed  her  out  of  the  flat,  he  felt 
like  a  muff.  Certainly  she  could  not  have  wished  to  make  him 
feel  so,  and  yet  he  fancied  that  he  detected  a  touch  of  lively 
malice  in  her  voice.  When  they  were  in  the  carriage,  which  was 
a  brougham,  she  began  to  chatter.  She  hardly  let  him  say  a 
word  while  they  were  driving  through  the  streets,  but  talked  on  a 
number  of  subjects  which  had  no  connection  with  each  other, 
dropping  each  one  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  taken  it  up. 
There  was  no  drawl  in  her  voice.  She  spoke  with  unusual 
quickness,  but  also  with  unusual  emptiness,  as  if  every  subject 
were  eqi  ally  devoid  of  interest  to  her,  and  she  were  only  speak- 


234  FELIX 

ing  because  she  disliked  silence,  not  because  she  really  wished 
to  say  anything.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  her  talk  made  Felix 
feel  unusually  stupid.  As  they  were  going  into  Prince's  he 
again  noticed  the  rent  in  her  veil  and  the  loose  end.  They 
quite  spoilt  the  otherwise  charming  effect  of  her  costume,  and  he 
fancied  that  the  loungers  in  the  vestibule,  even  that  the  atten- 
dants, noticed  them  and  thought  as  he  did  about  them.  He 
explained  to  the  porter  that  a  man  was  coming  presently  with  a 
luggage- ticket  for  him,  left  his  name,  and  they  walked  into  the 
restaurant.  It  was  not  yet  very  full.  They  got  a  table  against 
the  wall,  halfway  down  the  room.  Mrs.  Ismey  sat  down,  took 
off  her  veil,  and  glanced  round  with  a  sort  of  swift,  searching 
nervousness.  Her  eyes  looked  faded  and  smaller  than  usual. 
If  eyes  could  be  shrivelled  up,  like  old  tired  bodies,  Felix 
thought  that  would  be  the  best  description  of  their  appearance 
to-day.  Having  glanced  round,  she  saw  him  watching  her,  and 
screwed  up  her  eyes  at  him  deliberately,  with  that  sort  of  odd, 
almost  animal  roguishness  which  he  had  noticed  in  her  two  or 
three  times  before. 

'  I  like  you  best  in  country  clothes,'  she  said  irrelevantly. 

She  began  to  crumble  her  bread  although  she  had  not  yet 
taken  off  her  gloves.  Felix  felt  as  if  he  could  not  talk.  He 
had  nothing  to  say,  perhaps  because  he  felt  that  she  was  not  in 
a  mood  to  attend  closely  to  anything,  or  play  the  listener's  part. 
She  took  up  the  menu. 

'Are  you  hungry?' 

•I  don't  believe  I  am  very,'  Felix  said. 

She  was  again  looking  about  the  room,  and  he,  thoroughly 
stirred  to  restlessness  by  her  restlessness,  did  the  same. 

'Why,  there's  Lady  Caroline  !'  he  said. 

'Where?' said  Mrs.  Ismey  hastily. 

*A  long  way  down  the  room,  at  the  end  behind  you,  with 
somebody.' 

'  A  man  or  a  woman  ?     Where  is  she  ?     I  don't  see  her.' 

She  turned  round  on  her  chair  to  look  behind  her. 

'  A  woman  with  grey  hair.' 

'  I  see.  Mrs.  Bertold.  They  don't  see  us.  Don't  you  think 
Carrie  looks  horribly  ill  ? ' 

She  was  still  turning  round. 

'  I  don't  think  she  ever  looks  very  well,'  Felix  said. 

Almost  as   he   spoke   he   thought  he  was   saying  a   stupid 

The  waiter  handed  them  hors  d'oeuvre.  Mrs.  Ismey  helped 
herself  to  a  sardine. 


FELIX  235 

•Oh,  then  you've  noticed  what  a  curious  colour  she  generally 
is?'  she  said. 

She  was  quickly  unbuttoning  her  gloves  while  she  spoke. 

'  Carrie — well,  Carrie  smokes  too  much,'  she  continued. 

She  looked  at  Felix,  as  if  to  note  what  effect  this  statement 
would  make  upon  him.  It  occurred  to  him  that  she  was  treating 
him  like  a  baby,  to  whom  you  say  airily  that  the  moon  is  made 
of  green  cheese.  Yet  Lady  Caroline  did  smoke,  and  too  much 
smoking  is  bad  for  the  complexion. 

'  I  would  rather  die  than  have  a  complexion  like  that,'  she 
&dded. 

She  laid  her  gloves  beside  her  plate  and  picked  up  a  little 
fork.  Felix  looked  at  her  hands  and  became  hot.  He 
longed  to  cover  them  up,  to  beg  her  to  put  on  her  gloves  again. 
She  had  evidently  no  idea  what  was  the  matter,  and  ate  her 
sardine  quickly. 

' But  you  don't  think  I  ever  could,  do  you?'  she  asked. 

With  an  effort  Felix  answered  : 

*Is  there  anything  peculiar  in  Lady  Caroline's  complexion?' 

He  began  to  eat  too,  keeping  his  eyes  averted  from  her 
hands. 

*  Why  yes,  everybody  notices  it.' 

She  helped  herself  to  some  sole.  Felix  stole  an  anxious 
glance  at  the  waiter.  The  man's  face  was  imperturbable.  He 
came  round  to  Felix  and  bent  down  with  the  dish.  As  soon  as 
he  had  gone  Mrs.  Ismey  continued  : 

'And  talks  about  it.  Numbers  of  people  have  asked  me  why 
she  is  that  strange  colour.     Of  course  I  always  say  I  don't  know.' 

She  had  broken  up  her  sole  into  small  fragments.  Now  she 
pushed  them  about  her  plate  and  laid  the  fork  down. 

'  I  think  for  a  friend  one  ought  to  say  what  one  can,  don't 
you  ?'  she  said. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  Felix  with  those 
curiously  faded  eyes. 

'  I  don't  quite  understand,'  he  said. 

He  was  thinking  so  much  about  her  hands  that  his  attention 
was  not  fully  grasped  by  what  she  was  saying. 

'Of  course  not.     Why  should  you?' 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said: 

'And  yet  I'm  sure  Carrie  wouldn't  care  if  you  did.  She 
really  doesn't  care  what  any  one  thinks  of  her.' 

'But  why  should  she?     What  I  do,  I  mean. 

'Well,  I  don't  know.  I  should  care  much  more  what  you 
thought  about  me  than  what  most  people  do.' 


236  FELIX 

Felix  was  almost  surprised  at  the  thrill  of  pleasure  he  had. 
Suddenly  all  his  feeling  of  stupidity,  all  his  painful  preoccupation 
disappeared. 

*  Not  really  ! '  he  exclaimed. 
'Indeed  I  should.' 

'Then  would  you,  would  you  ever ?'  he  hesitated. 

'What?' 

'Would  you  ever  let  me  say  something  to  you  that  other 
people  wouldn't  dare  to  say  ? ' 

He  was  thinking  of  her  hands  and  half  wondering  at  his  own 
boldness. 

'  Perhaps.     But  what  sort  of  thing  ? ' 

She  was  looking  at  him  quite  curiously  now,  leaning  one  hand 
on  the  white  tablecloth  beside  her  plate,  on  which  lay  the  fish 
she  had  taken  and  had  not  eaten.  Suddenly  Felix  took  a  bold 
resolve. 

'  Do,  please,  put  on  your  gloves,'  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  half- 
pleading,  half-masterful  bluntness.  '  I  like  you  better  in  your 
gloves  to-day.' 

Directly  he  had  spoken  panic  overtook  him.  He  thought 
perhaps  he  had  forfeited  her  friendship  for  ever,  that  he  had 
said  the  unpardonable  thing.  He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her. 
There  was  a  silence  between  them  for  a  moment.  In  it  he 
heard  her  moving.  When  he  glanced  up  again  she  had  both 
gloves  on.     She  looked  quite  unembarrassed. 

'  I  want  to  have  some  white  wine,'  she  said.    '  Do  order  some.' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,'  Felix  exclaimed,  with  profound  contrition 
which  sprang  from  great  relief.  '  What  can  I  be  thinking  of 
to-day  ? ' 

He  called  the  waiter. 

'  I  can't  always  read  your  thoughts,'  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

As  he  ordered  the  wine  she  again  turned  round  to  look 
towards  the  table  where  Lady  Caroline  was  sitting.  The  room 
was  rapidly  filling  up  now.  Mrs.  Ismey  had  to  lean  sideways 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  friend.     Presently  she  nodded. 

*  Carrie  has  seen  me,'  she  said. 

The  waiter  filled  her  glass,  and  she  began  instantly  to  sip  the 
wine  quickly. 

'Poor  old  Carrie!'  she  added.  'D'you  know,  I  think  she's 
really  taken  a  fancy  to  you.' 

'Oh,  has  she?'  Felix  said,  delighted.  'But  I  can't  think 
why  she  should.' 

It  always  pleased  him  very  much  to  hear  that  any  one  liked 
him. 


FELIX  237 

•  If  she  has,'  Mrs.  Ismey  went  on,  with  an  air  of  thoughtfulness. 
*I  wonder  whether — I  wonder  if ' 

She  paused,  looking  at  him  as  if  she  were  considering  some- 
thing, and  trying  to  make  up  her  mind. 

'  I  wonder  if  you  could  help  her.' 

*I !     Help  Lady  Caroline  !'  Felix  said,  in  utter  astonishment. 

'Yes.  But  I  don't  suppose  you  could.  Besides,  you  don't 
know  what's  the  matter.  If  you  could  do  anything  I'd  tell 
you — at  least  I  think  I  would.' 

Felix  was  entirely  mystified.  He  could  not  help  feeling 
rather  curious.  He  had  always  dimly  suspected  that  there  was 
something  strange  in  Lady  Caroline's  life,  something  that  set 
her  apart  from  ordinary  people,  but  he  had  no  idea  what  it  was. 
Sometimes  he  had  thought  it  was  only  the  fact  that  she  had  a 
strong  character  and  an  amazing  fund  of  indifference  to  the 
opinions  of  others.  These  words  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  made  him  sure 
that  there  was  something  else.  At  this  moment  one  of  the 
porters  of  the  restaurant  came  up  to  him,  holding  his  smart  cap 
in  one  hand  and  a  piece  of  thin  paper  in  the  other. 

'A  man's  just  left  this  for  you,  sir,'  he  said. 

'Oh,  thanks,'  said  Felix. 

It  was  his  luggage-ticket.  He  took  it  and  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  glancing  at  the  clock.  The  hands  pointed  to  twenty 
minutes  to  two.  The  waiter  handed  Mrs.  Ismey  some  cutlets. 
She  took  one  and  began  to  cut  it  up  into  minute  pieces. 

'  I  know  I  could  trust  you  never  to  breathe  a  word,'  she 
continued. 

She  spoke  in  such  a  low  voice,  and  there  was  such  a  buzz  of 
conversation  from  the  many  people  at  the  innumerable  tables 
round  them,  that  Felix  could  hardly  hear  her.  He  was  obliged 
to  lean  forward.     She  did  the  same. 

'  I  'm  not  a  bit  hungry,'  she  said,  pushing  her  plate  a  little 
away  from  her.  '  I  never  am  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  You 
go  on  eating  and  I  '11  talk.' 

'Yes,'  said  Fciix. 

He  began  to  eat  his  cutlet. 

'Carrie's  life  is  being  ruined,  simply  ruined,  by  what  she's 
doing,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said,  still  in  a  low  voice.  'I've  done  every- 
thing I  can.  I've  almost  forfeited  her  friendship  by  wliat  I've 
done  to  try  to  stop  her.  I  've  even  put  myself  into  the  most 
false  positions — you  rememl  er  that  night  when  I  made  you 
take  me  to  that  chemist  in  Wigmore  Street?' 

'Yes,'  said  Felix,  wondering. 

•  I  went  there  to  try  and  du  something  for  her.* 


238  FELIX 

*  But  you ' 

*  I  know,'  she  interrupted.  *  I  told  you  it  was  for  myself,  that 
I  was  unwell.     I  did  that  to  screen  Carrie.' 

It  occurred  to  Felix  that  it  was  rather  strange,  if  this  were  so, 
that  Mrs.  Ismey  should  be  so  open  at  this  moment. 

'You  're  wondering  why  I  should  say  anything  now,'  she  said. 

He  realised  how  dangerous  her  swiftness  of  apprehension 
was,  while  it  attracted  him  almost  more  than  anything  else  in 
her. 

'  Yes,  I  was,'  he  answered  simply. 

As  their  intimacy  grew  he  was  becoming  much  more  frank 
with  her.  And  he  thought  that  she,  too,  was  becoming  very 
frank  with  him. 

'I  almost  wonder  too,'  she  said.  'But  somehow — well,  since 
that  night  I  have  felt  that  a  woman  might  rely  on  you,  although 
you  are  such  a  boy.' 

At  that  moment  Felix  felt  as  if  he  actually  loved  her. 

'Thank  you,'  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  eager  earnestness  that 
was  very  young. 

'  And  it 's  rather  bad  having  to  act  for  another  woman  without 
being  able  to  say  a  word  to  any  one,  especially  when  you  feel 
that  whatever  you  do  you  are  doing  no  good  at  all,  that  you  are 
of  no  use.  I  can't  tell  my  husband.  He  hates  Carrie  and  she 
hates  him.' 

She  poured  some  more  wine  into  her  glass.  The  waiter  had 
darted  forward  to  do  it,  but  she  took  no  notice  of  him. 

'That  makfs  it  so  difficult  for  me,'  she  continued.  'My 
husband  and  my  greatest  friend.     You  can  understand.' 

'Yes,'  Felix  said. 

He  was  filled  with  sympathy  for  her. 

'  I  was  travelling  in  France  with  Carrie  when  I  first  met  my 
husband.  People  are  so  odd.  I  really  believe  sometimes  that 
jealousy  is  the  guiding  spirit  of  the  world.' 

'  Oh,  but  that  would  be  horrible  ! '  exclaimed  Felix. 

'Does  that  make  you  think  it  must  be  impossible?  You 
forget  your  Balzac' 

Felix  blushed.  She  screwed  up  her  eyes,  looking  at  him  with 
a  sort  of  gay  kindness. 

'But  I've  noticed  that  London  has  begun  to  blot  out  the 
Comedie  Hutnaine^  she  said.      '  Now,  hasn't  it  ? ' 

'Perhaps  it  has,'  he  acknowledged. 

'  When  one  acts  in  a  play  one  forgets  the  play  one  has  merely 
read.' 

'Yes,  I  suppose  so.' 


FELIX  239 

The  continuous  buzz  of  conversation  in  the  restaurant,  the 
movement  of  the  many  waiters,  the  sight  of  numbers  of  people 
whose  faces  were  strange  to  him,  these  things  bred  excitement 
in  Fehx,  who  was  utterly  unaccustomed  to  restaurant  life.  His 
mind  felt  very  keen  but  not  concentrated.  Everything  struck 
him  as  looking  and  sounding  rather  unnatural.  The  expres- 
sions in  the  women's  eyes  were  surely  artificial.  Even  the  food 
he  was  eating  tasted  deliciously  odd,  and  the  murmur  of  the 
many  voices  was  both  frivolous  and  mysterious  in  his  ears.  No 
wonder  that  this  city,  with  its  innumerable  hands,  wiped  out  the 
writing  on  the  slate. 

'  This  ice  is  delicious,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

'I  can't  think  how  you  live,'  he  answered.  'You  never  seem 
to  eat  anything  solid.' 

'  Women  don't  need  so  much  as  men — in  that  line.' 

'Don't  they?  I  shall  never  understand  women,  except  just 
two.' 

'And  who  are  those  lucky  ones?' 

'Why,  my  mother  and  sister.' 

'  Oh ;  but  suppose  I  try  to  make  you  understand  Carrie 
better,'  she  said,  returning  to  their  former  subject. 

'Wouldn't  she  mind?'  he  asked. 

His  curiosity  was  fully  roused,  but  he  felt  a  great  delicacy  in 
being  let  into  Lady  Caroline's  secret  by  another  woman.  That 
was,  perhaps,  hardly  right,  hardly  chivalrous. 

'Suppose  even  that  she  did  !  Would  that  matter  much  if  it 
was  a  way  of  helping  her? ' 

'  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  ! '  Felix  said,  with  sudden, 
warm  enthusiasm. 

The  idea  that  he  could  help  two  such  women  as  Lady  Caroline 
and  Mrs.  Ismey  thrilled  him.  They  knew  everything  he  did 
not  know.  The  doors  still  shut  to  him  had,  no  doubt,  long 
been  open  to  them.  Yet,  he  was  a  man,  and  men  were  surely 
meant  to  help  women.  Perhaps  even  in  his  ignorance  he  was 
stronger,  more  capable  than  they  were,  without  knowing  how  or 
why.  Mrs.  Ismey,  perhaps,  could  tell  him  how  and  why. 
If  so,  he  would  surely  be  a  fool  to  try  to  stop  her.  He  resolved 
quickly  to  leave  himself  quite  in  her  hands. 

'Tell  me  just  what  you  like,'  he  said.  'Ask  me  anything 
you  like.' 

'I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  go  on  being  alone  in  this  thing 
any  longer,'  she  said.  '  And  since  the  night  when  you  drove 
me  to  Wigmore  Street  I  have  felt  as  if  I  would  rather  tell  you 
than  any  one.     Some  men  would  have  been  so  horrid.     They 


240  FELIX 

would  have  asked  questions,  or  thought  something  dreadful  of 
me.  It  was  such  a  strange  thing  to  do.  Any  one  might  liave 
imagined — but  you  didn't.  I  went  to  that  chemist  to  beg  him 
not  to  sell  Carrie  any  more  morphia.' 

'  Morphia  ! '  said  Felix. 

'  Hush  !  Be  careful !  Somebody  might  hear  us.  Yes.  She 
is  ruining  her  life  with  it,  and  that  night — well,  you  remember 
when  you  were  waiting  at  the  hall  door  and  she  and  I  were 
talking?' 

'Yes.' 

'  You  must  have  noticed  how  earnestly  we  were  speaking.  I 
had  my  hand  on  her  shoulder.' 

'  I  did  notice.' 

'  It  was  something  that  happened  then  which  made  me  feel 
as  if  I  couldn't  wait,  as  if  I  must  try  to  do  something  that  very 
night.  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind.  You  see  I  didn't  know 
you  so  very  well  then.  All  the  time  we  were  driving  I  was 
trying  to  decide  what  to  do.  At  last  I  resolved  to  go  to  that 
horrid  man.' 

'  The  chemist  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'  It  was  awfully  good  of  you,'  said  Felix.    '  It  was  splendid  of  you.' 

He  remembered  the  dark,  blind  house,  and  how  she  had 
stood  on  the  pavement  alone  ringing  the  chemist's  bell,  the 
stealthy  opening  of  the  door,  the  half-seen  figure,  her  disappear- 
ance into  the  murky  gloom,  the  interval  which  seemed  so  long 
before  she  came  back. 

'  I  couldn't  have  slept  if  I  hadn't  done  it,'  she  said. 

'  Will  you  take  coffee,  sir  ? '  said  a  voice  with  a  strong  foreign 
accent. 

Felix  started. 

*I — will  you  have  coffee?'  he  asked  Mrs.  Ismey. 

*Yes,  Turkish  coffee,  please.' 

Just  as  Felix  was  ordering  it  he  thought  of  the  time.  He 
looked  at  the  clock.     The  hand  pointed  to  the  half-hour. 

'  Oh  ! '  he  exclaimed  involuntarily. 

'What's  the  matter?' 

'Only— nothing  really — but  I've  lost  the  train.' 

'Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

She  spoke  with  the  sweetest  earnestness. 

'  It 's  all  my  fault.  But  you  've  been  so  kind  that  I  've  been 
selfish.     I  really  forgot.' 

'Please,  please  don't.  It  doesn't  matter,  if  I  can  send  a 
telegram  to  my  mother.' 


FELIX  241 

'Get  a  telegraph-form  quickly,'  she  said  to  the  waiter. 

While  he  fetched  it  she  went  on  saying  how  vexed  she  was. 
Felix  begged  her  not  to  mind.  The  man  brought  the  form,  and 
Felix  wrote  a  hasty  wire  saying  he  would  come  down  by  the 
next  train. 

'Does  it  matter  so  very  much?'  Mrs.  Ismey  said.  'I  feel 
quite  guilty,  spoiling  all  your  plans  with  my  miserable  little 
affairs.  I  'm  afraid  a  woman  can  be  very  selfish — when  she 
comes  across  a  man  who  isn't.' 

She  looked  at  him  gently. 

'  Please,  it's  quite  all  right,'  he  said. 

He  was  too  deeply  interested  in  what  she  was  saying  to  care 
if  he  missed  a  dozen  trains  now.     The  waiter  brought  the  coffee. 

'Light  your  cigarette,'  she  said.  'You'll  forgive  me  more 
easily  when  you  're  smoking.' 

She  drew  out  a  little  gold  matchbox  that  hung  on  a  thin  chain 
with  some  pretty,  absurd  charms  at  her  side,  lit  a  match,  and 
handed  it  to  him.  As  he  took  it  eagerly  he  thought  of  Marza 
and  of  the  rustling  in  that  inner  room,  and  he  felt  as  if  he 
understood  Marza  much  better  to-day  than  he  had  before,  and 
even  as  if  he  were  more  like  him.     She  began  to  sip  her  coffee. 

'Does — does  Mr.  Ismey  dislike  Lady  Caroline  because  he 
knows  ? '  Felix  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

He  looked  across  the  long  room  as  he  spoke  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Lady  Caroline,  who  was  leaning  one  arm  on  her 
table,  and  talking  with  apparent  earnestness  to  her  companion, 
a  very  smartly  dressed,  middle-aged  woman,  whose  hair  was  grey 
in  front  and  dark  at  the  sides. 

'  Oh  no.     He  never  liked  Carrie  from  the  first.* 

'  But  hasn't  he  an  idea  ? '  said  Felix. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  interview  with  Mr.  Ismey  in  the  office, 
and  of  Mr.  Ismey's  curiously  bitter,  almost  violent  expression 
when  Lady  Caroline's  name  was  mentioned. 

'I  don't  think  so.     Why?     Do  you  think  he  has  ?' 

A  piercing  look  suddenly  darted  into  her  eyes,  and  she 
glanced  at  him  with  the  most  narrow,  eager  scrutiny. 

'  No,  I  don't  know  at  all.     How  could  I  ?' 

'Of  course  not.' 

She  began  to  sip  her  coffee  again. 

'It's  terrible  for  me,'  she  said,  after  a  moment.  'Seeing  the 
gradual  degringolade  of  my  best  friend.  It's  a  perfect  night- 
mare.' 

'It  must  be  horrible,'  said  Felix. 

He  looked  again  towards  Lady  Caroline,  examining  her  with 
Q 


242  FELIX 

the  most  profound  interest.  A  cloud  of  tragedy  seemed  floating 
round  her,  in  the  midst  of  which  his  imagination  was  flying  Hke 
a  bird.  He  could  not  see  her  expression  very  well.  She  was 
too  far  off.  But  even  from  that  distance  she  looked  notable. 
There  was  a  boldness  in  her  attitude,  in  a  gesture  which  she 
made  while  she  was  speaking,  which  marked  her  out  from  the 
crowd  of  women  drinking  coffee  and  chattering  with  the  men, 
who  were  smoking  cigarettes. 

'And  she  looks  so  strong,'  he  could  not  help  saying. 

'  Strong — Carrie  ? ' 

'Yes.  But  no  one  who  was  strong  could  be  a  victim  to  a 
thing  like  morphia,  could  they  ? ' 

'Why  not?  In  a  way  Carrie  is  strong.  She  will  do  what 
she  chooses,  and  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  can  stop  her.' 

'  But  how  did  you  think  I  could  possibly  be  of  any  use,  then?' 
Felix  asked,  wondering. 

'  I  don't  know.     Drowning  people  catch  at  straws.* 

'  But  you're  not  drowning.' 

She  laughed  quickly. 

'  I !  No.  I  talk  nonsense.  But  Carrie 's  got  on  my  nerves. 
You  must  have  noticed  how  nervous  I  am  to-day.' 

Again  the  sudden,  narrow  look  of  scrutiny  came  into  her 
eyes. 

'  Haven't  you  ? ' 

'  I  thought  you  didn't  seem  quite  the  same  as  usual,'  Felix 
answered.  '  But  then,  perhaps,  it 's  ridiculous  to  say  "as  usual" 
about  you.' 

'Why  ridiculous?' 

'  Well,  because  you  are  changing  all  the  time,  aren't  you?' 

As  he  was  actually  answering  her  question  memories  of  the 
many  differing  women  he  had  seemed  to  see  in  her  came  to 
him  :  the  gay,  sarcastic  woman  with  bright  and  observant  eyes; 
the  languid  woman  in  the  garden  at  Churston  Waters,  moved 
to  such  strange  emotion  by  a  dull  duet ;  the  woman  by  the 
tramp  table ;  the  woman  who  stole  furtively  into  the  chemist's 
house;  the  woman  whose  face  twitched  as  she  listened  to  the 
harangue  of  Marza. 

*  A  woman  like  my  mother  never  seems  to  change,'  he  added. 
'  But  you  are  never  quite  the  same  as  you  were  yesterday.  I 
can't  make  it  out.' 

She  laughed  lightly. 

'Shall  I  try  to  be?' 

'No,  don't,' he  answered  hastily.  *I  do  wish  I  could  help 
you  now,  though.' 


FELIX  243 

•  So  do  I,'  she  said. 

This  time  there  was  an  unmistakable  thrill  of  earnestness, 
almost  of  passion,  in  her  voice.  It  was  a  voice  that  meant 
more  than  it  said. 

•But  I  suppose '  he  began. 

'  Hush  ! '  she  whispered.  '  Ah,  Carrie,  we  spied  you  in  the 
distance  ! ' 

Felix  started.  He  had  not  seen  the  approach  of  Lady 
Caroline.  He  jumped  up,  feeling  as  if  she  must  know  what 
Mrs.  Ismey  and  he  had  been  talking  about. 

'The  food's  quite  good  here  to-day,'  Lady  Caroline  said. 

She  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  looking  rather  as  if 
she  were  made  of  stone.  Felix  glanced  at  her  furtively.  Now 
that  he  knew  so  much  about  her  he  thought  her  peculiar 
complexion  more  dreadful  than  ever.  That  pinkiness  in  it  was 
vicious.  Fatigue  seemed  brooding  over  her  to-day,  and  yet 
she  looked  strong,  as  if  she  could  do  things,  as  if  she  had  a 
constitution  able  to  defy  excesses  which  other  women  would 
sink  under. 

Mrs.  Ismey  greeted  the  woman  with  the  black-and-grey 
hair,  and  Lady  Caroline,  turning  to  Felix,  said : 

'  Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Bertold.  Mr.  Wilding — 
Mrs.  Bertold.' 

Mrs.  Bertold,  who  had  a  wandering,  society  eye,  and  an 
aimless  but  well-meaning  manner,  bowed. 

'London's  quite  fiUin' up,'  she  remarked,  in  a  voice  empty 
of  all  significance.    'There's  Lady  Stuckfield.    Who's  she  with?' 

'  I  don't  know,'  Felix  answered,  feeling  hopelessly  ignorant, 
and  thinking  about  Lady  Caroline,  with  a  kind  of  mingled 
horror  and  attraction. 

'  It  looks  like  Sir  George  Bray.  No,  it  isn't.  The  moustache 
is  too  white.     Not  Harry  Wilmer,  is  it  ? ' 

She  held  a  glass  to  her  pale  eyes.  Lady  Caroline  and  Mrs. 
Ismey  were  exchanging  some  words  in  low  voices.  Felix  only 
heard  one.     It  was  'Paris.' 

'Yes,  it  is  Harry  Wilmer,'  continued  Mrs  Bertold,  with  a  sort 
of  cotton-wool  animation.     'Good  figure,  hasn't  he?' 

'Yes,  very,'  said  Felix,  trying  to  m:ike  out  which  of  the 
innumerable  men  in  the  room  she  was  talking  about. 

'A  pity  his  wife's  such  a  horrid  woman,  isn't  it?' 

•Yes.' 

'Her  ridiculous  passion  for  ermine's  simply  ruinin'  him. 
Of  course  one  can  understand  it.  But  still — even  ermine  isn't 
everythin',  is  it  ? ' 


244  FELIX 

'No,  indeed.' 

'There's  Milly  Emphage.  What  a  hat!  She  will  go  to 
Rosa  Croix  for  hats.     Such  an  insanity  !' 

At  this  moment  Lady  CaroHne  interposed. 

'  We  must  be  off,'  she  said.  '  We  are  going  to  a  concert. 
Good-bye.' 

She  stared  Felix  full  in  the  face  with  her  light  eyes. 

'I  shall  be  in  on  Tuesday  afternoon  at  five,'  she  said.  'You 
like  me,  don't  you  ?  ' 

'  Lady  Caroline  ! ' 

'  Never  mind  whether  you  do  or  not.     Come  in  on  Tuesday.' 

'  Do  you  like  her  ? '  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  as  soon  as  they  had 
gone. 

'  I  think  I  do  in  a  way.  I  don't  quite  know  what  it  is,  but 
— she  's  so  blunt,  isn't  she  ?     And  in  her  it  is  attractive.' 

'Is  it?  Well,  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  going  too.  I'll 
drive  you  to  Charing  Cross.' 

'Oh  no,  you  mustn't.      Let  me  take  a  cab.' 

'  Indeed  I  shan't.  Besides,  I  've  got  something  to  ask  you  on 
the  way.' 

'  What  is  it  you  want  to  ask  me  ? '  Felix  said,  when  they  were 
once  more  in  the  brougham. 

'Something  very  unromantic* 

She  put  on  the  white  veil. 

'  Something  that  may  surprise  you  very  much.  Don't  mind 
refusing  me.' 

'Of  course  I  won't  refuse.  Is  it — is  it  anything  to  help 
Lady  Caroline? ' 

'You  mustn't  ask  any  questions.  Could  you  possibly,  just 
for  a  week  till  next  Saturday,  lend  me  a  hundred  pounds  ?' 

Felix  was  so  surprised  by  such  a  request  from  her  that  he 
felt  almost  as  if  he  must  have  heard  wrongly.  It  was  impossible 
that  she  could  be  in  a  money  difficulty.  Ismey  and  Co.  was 
such  a  great  firm,  and  so  notoriously  rich. 

'  A  hundred  pounds  ?  '  he  repeated,  in  quite  a  dull,  inter- 
rogative voice. 

'  Never  mind.     If  it 's  the  least  awkward * 

'  No,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that !     Of  course  not ! ' 

But  even  while  he  was  speaking  he  realised  that  he  would 
have  to  ask  his  mother  for  the  money. 

'  I  only  want  it  for  a  week,  and  I  don't  wish  to  ask  my  husband 
for  it.  I  had  no  idea  till — well,  till  very  lately  that  I  should 
need  it,  or,  of  course,  I  could  have  taken  it  out  of  my  pin-money.' 

Felix    felt   certain   that    she   wanted   the    money   for   Lady 


FELIX  245 

Caroline,  and  that  Lady  Caroline  must  have  spoken  about  the 
matter  in  the  restaurant.  Yet  that  was  very  strange  too,  for 
surely  Lady  Caroline  was  an  absolutely  independent  woman 
with  a  large  fortune. 

'  I  '11  be  only  too  delighted  to  lend  you  the  money,'  he  said, 
trying  to  speak  naturally,  but  feeling  very  uncomfortable  for 
her,  since  he  realised  acutely  how  uncomfortable  she  must  be 
feeling.  'It's  only — I  shall  have  to  ask  my — I  shall  have  to 
get  it  from  my  mother.' 

'Oh,  that's  impossible,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

She  spoke  rather  sharply.  After  an  instant  she  added 
gently : 

*  I  mean  if  you  have  to  tell  her  that  it's  for — well,  for  me.' 
The  way  in  which  she  said  this  made  Felix  absolutely  positive 

that  the  money  was  for  Lady  Caroline,  and  that  Mrs.  Ismey, 
for  her  friend's  sake,  was  putting  herself  into  this  very  painful 
and  false  position.  An  ardent  admiration  for  her,  an  ardent 
desire  to  serve  her  filled  him. 

'  I  '11  get  it  without  saying  a  word,'  he  exclaimed.  *  I  '11  just 
say  I  want  it.     That  will  be  true.     I  do  want  it  for  you.' 

'Thank  you.' 

She  touched  his  hand  with  hers.  He  looked  at  the  glove 
on  it,  felt  half  inclined  to  withdraw  his  hand,  then  that  he 
was  a  brute  for  the  feeling.  She  left  her  hand  on  his  for 
quite  a  minute  while  they  drove  on,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
minute  his  pulses  were  beating,  and  he  had  quite  forgotten 
that  brief  instant  of  repulsion.  He  ventured  to  press  her 
hand  very  gently  with  his,  and,  while  he  did  so,  he  thought 
of  the  girl  rustling  about  Marza's  inner  room  and  opening 
and  shutting  drawers.  There  was  emotion  in  his  eyes.  Just 
for  that  moment  he  felt  as  if  he  were  a  man  with  great  powers, 
as  if  he  were  a  brute  too;  and  then,  immediately,  as  if  he  were 
an  anxious  boy  again. 

She  took  away  her  hand  lightly. 

'Will  you  be  quite  perfect,  and  send  me  a  wire  directly 
you  know  whether  you  can  arrange  matters  with  your  mother  ?' 
she  said. 

•Yes,  yes,  I  will.' 

*  To-night,  do  you  think?* 

*Yes,  I'll  ask  her  to-night.  Almost  directly— when  I'm 
twenty-one  it  '11  be  all  right.  I  shall  be  quite  my  own  master 
about  things  of  that  sort.' 

They  were  just  turning  into  the  station-yard  of  Charing  Cross, 
'Don't  think  badly  of  me  for  this,'  she  said.     'Will  you  ?* 


246  FELIX 

'Badly!'  he  exclaimed.  *  Do  you  suppose  I  can't  guess 
why ' 

'  Hush  ! '  she  interrupted.     '  You  aren't  to  guess  anything.' 

The  last  thing  she  said,  as  he  stood  on  the  station  pave- 
ment among  the  jostling  porters,  was  : 

*  And  if  it 's  all  right  could  you  let  me  have  it  by  Monday  ? ' 

'I'll  send  it  by  post  to-morrow,'  he  replied.  'Don't  be 
very  angry  with  me,  but  I  do  understand  why  you  want  the 
money,  I  do  really.' 

She  only  smiled  faintly. 

He  knew  that  she  was  determined  to  guard  the  secret  of 
her  friend. 


CHAPTER     XX 

IT  was  a  quarter  to  five,  and  quite  dark,  when  the  train  in 
which  Fehx  travelled  ran  into  Frankton  Wells  station. 
When  he  came  into  the  station-yard  and  looked  about  he  could 
not  see  the  carriage.  No  doubt  it  had  met  the  train  he  had 
missed.  He  hoped  his  mother  had  not  come  in  it.  He 
engaged  a  fly  and  started,  in  rather  a  depressed  mood,  upon 
his  lonely  drive  of  over  three  miles.  The  lights  of  the  country 
town — how  countrified  it  looked  to  him  after  the  London 
streets — were  soon  left  behind,  and  the  grey  horse  jogged 
slowly  along  the  roads  between  the  hedges  and  the  flowerless 
banks.  Felix  had  had  the  fly  opened  and,  as  he  drove,  he 
looked  out  gloomily  enough  at  the  yellowish-white  road,  the  tall 
trees,  the  empty  fields.  The  excitement  h  j  had  left  behind  him 
made  the  quiet  of  this  country,  wrapped  up  in  the  autumn 
evening,  seem  so  profound  as  to  be  almost  unnatural.  Even  its 
familiarity  did  not  render  it  companionable.  He  shivered  and 
wished  himself  back  in  London.  Now  that  the  heat  of  his 
afternoon  mood  had  passed  he  dreaded  having  to  ask  his  mother 
for  that  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds  directly  he  arrived.  She 
would  have  been  disappointed  by  his  not  appearing  in  time  for 
tea.  It  would  seem  ungracious  to  speak  on  money  matters  so 
soon,  especially  as  he  had  just  received  the  cheque  for  a 
hundred  guineas  to  pay  Mr.  Carringbridge.  The  arrangement 
between  them  till  he  came  of  age  was  that  Mrs.  Wilding 
defrayed  all  the  expenses  of  the  flat,  and  that  Felix  had  an 
allowance  of  seven  pounds  a  week  paid  weekly.  When  it  had 
been  settled  that  he  should  live  in  London,  she  had  been 
ready  to  make  over  to  him  his  whole  fortune.  But  in  his 
enthusiasm  at  the  lil)erty  he  was  gaining,  and  his  gratitude 
for  her  self-sacrifice,  he  had  preferred  to  have  an  allowance. 
The  seven  pounds  a  week  had  seemed  riches  to  him  then.  Mrs. 
Ismey's  sudden  request  made  him  think  that  he  had  been  very 
short-sighted.  However,  it  could  not  be  helped.  He  would 
have  to  speak  about  the  cheque  directly  he  saw  his  mother,  so 

247 


248  FELIX 

that  he  might  be  able  to  fulfil  his  promise  to  wire  to  Mrs.  Ismey 
that  night. 

The  fly-horse  went  very  slowly.  It  was  half-past  five  when 
at  length  the  lights  of  Churston  Waters  began  to  shine  through 
the  darkness,  and  the  fly  turned  into  the  long,  straight  road 
which  led  by  the  schools  to  Hill  House.  As  it  rolled  past  the 
high  yellow  wall  of  the  yard  Felix  heard  the  loud  barking  of 
Mab  and  the  jangle  of  her  chain.  He  glanced  up  at  the 
windows  of  the  new  part  of  the  house  and  saw  the  white  cap 
of  one  of  the  maid-servants.  She  had  evidently  heard  the 
wheels  and  was  looking  out.  He  pulled  off  his  gloves.  The 
fly  stopped  before  the  front  door,  which  was  immediately  opened 
by  the  butler.  As  Felix  got  out,  and  before  he  had  paid  the 
fly-man,  he  saw  his  mother's  figure  in  the  hall.  It  looked  very 
tall  and  black  in  the  lamplight.  He  paid  the  man  quickly  and 
stepped  in,  greeting  the  butler  with  as  much  cordiality  as  he 
could  manage  just  then. 

*  I  'm  awfully  sorry,  mater,  about  being  so  late,'  he  began 
at  once. 

She  kissed  him  eagerly  without  a  word. 

'  It  was  most  unlucky,  but  I  couldn't  help  it  really.  You 
didn't  go  to  the  station,  did  you  ?  ' 

'  Never  mind.     So  long  as  you  have  come  ! ' 

'  Oh,  I  say,  you  did  go !  What  a  beastly  shame.  Did  you 
wait  on  the  platform  in  all  this  damp?' 

'Oh,  I  was  well  wrapped  up  and  kept  my  shawl  over  my 
mouth.' 

They  were  in  the  long  drawing-room  now.  The  fire  was 
blazing,  the  tea-table  was  drawn  up  by  it.  Felix  began  to  feel 
more  cheerful.     He  stood  by  the  fire  warming  his  hands. 

'You  had  better  have  your  tea  at  once  or  it  will  spoil  your 
dinner,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding.  'We  are  dining  at  a  quarter-past 
seven  to-night.     I  hope  you  won't  mind.' 

'  Well,  but  why  ?  ' 

'  Because  of  Stephen.  You  see  to-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  he 
has  the  early  celebration.  He  never  goes  out  on  a  Saturday  as 
a  rule.  He  likes  to  stay  quietly  at  home  and  think  over  his 
sermons.     But  he  made  an  exception  for  you.' 

She  spoke  brightly,  yet  Felix  felt  annoyed. 

'Oh,  all  right,'  he  said.  'But  I'd  better  not  have  much 
tea,  then.' 

He  sat  down  near  his  mother. 

'  Have  you  had  yours  ? ' 

•  Yes.' 


FELIX  249 

She  gave  him  his  tea  and  some  muffin,  and  sat  looking  at  him 
while  he  ate  and  drank. 

'  I  did  not  get  your  telegram  till  I  had  got  home  from  the 
station,'  she  said.  'And  then  it  was  too  late  to  send  back  the 
carriage.     I  am  sorry  you  had  to  take  a  fly.' 

'  What  did  you  think  when  I  didn't  come  ? ' 

'  I  did  not  know  what  to  think.  I  was  dreadfully  afraid  that 
perhaps  you  had  had  an  accident.  I  thought  you  might  have 
been  run  over.' 

He  laughed. 

'What  nonsense,  mater !' 

'  What  was  it  ?  '  she  said. 

Felix  felt  rather  uncomfortable. 

'Well,  I — I  was  out  at  lunch  and  made  a  mistake  about  the 
time.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  half  as  late  as  it  was.  I  'm  afraid  it 
was  carelessness — partly.     I  am  most  fearfully  sorry.' 

He  was  thinking  of  the  cheque  and  the  telegram  he  had  to 
send.     There  was  not  much  time. 

'You  see,'  he  went  on,  'London's  so  noisy  and  big,  and 
there's  such  a  lot  to  do  in  it,  that  it's  easy  to  make  a  mistake 
or  forget  things.  And  then  it 's  difficult  to  calculate  distances 
and  all  that.     I  won't  do  it  again.' 

'Never  mind,'  his  mother  said  again  cheerfully.  'What  does 
it  matter?' 

She  did  not  even  hint  at  her  disappointment.  Felix  glanced 
at  her  gratefully  and  also  a  little  nervously.  She  had  her 
icewool  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and  wore,  as  usual,  a  very 
plain  black  dress.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  large  and  gentle 
dark  eyes  looked  very  happy,  and  very  good,  he  thought. 
There  was  no  arriere-pensee  in  them,  nothing  to  doubt,  or 
wonder  at.  They  were  as  candid  and  pure  as  a  child's,  but 
they  were  not  childlike.  The  look  of  a  woman  who  has  suffered 
was  in  them  always,  but  of  a  woman  whose  suffering  has  never 
made  her  rebel  or  lose  her  faith.  For  a  moment  Felix  thought 
of  his  drive  with  Lady  Caroline  and  Mrs.  Ismey,  and  of  the 
dreams  their  eyes  had  given  him,  dreams  born  of  the  ignorance 
they  made  him  feel,  whicli  widened  the  borders  between  which 
imagination  walked.  When  he  looked  at  his  mother's  eyes 
how  well  he  understood  her.  Imagination  had  no  room  for 
tortuous  and  delightful  courses. 

'  It  seems  to  me  so  long  since  you  were  here,  Felix,'  she  said. 
'  But  then  my  life  is  so  very  quiet  now.  Do  the  days  pass 
quickly  in  London  now  you  have  your  work?' 

'  Yes,  awfully  fast.     But  all  the  same  it  seems  to  me  ages 


250  FELIX 

since  I  was  here.  I  say,  mater,  I  've  never  thanked  you  about 
the  school  and  all  that.' 

'I  hope  you  really  like  it?'  she  said. 

'  Rather ! '  said  Felix.  '  I  think  it  will  do  me  a  lot  of 
good  too.' 

She  had  not  alluded  to  her  surprise  and  disappointment  over 
his  refusal  of  Mr.  Ismey's  offer.  He  thought  of  that  and  again 
felt  grateful,  realising  that  she  gave  him  his  freedom  without  any 
reserve.  But  this  very  sense  of  gratitude  made  it  the  more 
difficult  for  him  to  do  what  he  had  to  do. 

'  Will  you  have  another  cup  ? '  she  asked. 

•No,  thank  you.' 

The  clock  struck  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  voice  of  the 
church  clock  echoed  it. 

'  Six  already.' 

He  got  up  and  again  stood  by  the  fire. 

♦  Mater ! ' 
•Yes,'  she  said. 

•  You  've  been  tremendously  good  to  me  about  money  and 
— look  here,  I  'm  not  going  to  be  extravagant  in  London.  I 
promise  you  that.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  smiled.  Her  face  was  very  serene  to-night. 
It  was  long  since  she  had  had  a  moment  of  such  happiness. 
This  change  from  her  new  loneliness  carried  her  back  to  the 
old  days  when  she  felt  that  her  home  was  indeed  home,  con- 
taining all  that  made  earth  lovely  for  her. 

'  I  am  sure  you  will  be  careful,'  she  said  quietly. 

'Yes.  But  you  know  just  at  first '  he  stopped.  Pre- 
varication literally  stuck  in  his  throat  when  he  looked  at  her. 

'  Mater,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  great  favour,'  he  said  bluntly. 

'  Why,  what  is  it?  '  she  said,  pleased  at  the  thought  of  being 
able  perhaps  to  show  the  happiness  his  coming  had  given  her 
by  doing  something  definite  for  him. 

'I  want  you — could  you  be  most  awfully  kind  and  let  me 
have  a  hundred  pounds,  a  hundred  pounds  extra,  I  mean,  as 
well  as  what  I  have  every  week? ' 

He  felt  sordid  as  he  heard  himself  say  it.  The  fact  that  the 
money  was  not  for  himself  seemed  to  make  no  difference.  He 
stood  looking  down  at  the  hearthrug.  Mrs.  Wilding  was  very 
much  surprised,  and  her  surprise  woke  up  vague  fears.  London 
again  presented  itself  to  her  mind  as  a  monster,  dnngerous  and 
alDnormal.  Once  more  there  came  to  her  the  feeling  that  she 
had  a  double  duty  towards  her  boy  now  that  he  was  fatherless. 
Her  natural  instinct  was  to  preserve  intact  the  sweet  atmosphere 


FELIX  251 

of  happiness  in  which  she  had  been  rejoicing,  to  tell  Fehx 
quickly  he  should  have  the  money,  and  say  no  more  about 
the  matter.  But  would  that  be  right  ?  Would  not  a  father's 
experience  have  suggested  the  need  of  some  inquiry?  Seven 
pounds  a  week,  in  addition  to  the  expenses  of  the  flat,  was  a 
very  liberal  allowance  and  should  surely  be  much  more  than 
enough  for  Felix. 

'  Can  you,  mater?' 

Felix's  voice  was  rather  hard.  He  was  so  uncomfortable 
that  he  looked  stern. 

'  You  could  not  tell  me  what  you  want  the  money  for  ? '  Mrs. 
Wilding  suggested  gently. 

Felix  felt  the  red  mounting  to  his  cheeks.  The  awkwardness 
of  his  position  made  him  angry. 

'  I  'm  afraid  not,'  he  said.  '  I  don't  see — I  mean,  surely  you 
can  trust  me.  I  'm  not  going  to  do  anything  awful  with  the 
money.* 

He  laughed. 

'  Really,  mater,  I  do  believe  you  're  always  ready  to  think 
I  'm  anxious  to  do  something  shocking.     It  is  too  absurd.' 

'  No,  Felix,  it  isn't  that  at  all.  Only,  you  see,  a  hundred 
pounds  is  a  large  sum  in  addition  to  the  money  you  have  each 
week,  and  I  know  there  are  many  temptations  in  London ' 

'Oh!'  he  exclaimed,  with  a  long,  angry  breath.  'To  hear 
you  talk,  mater,  one  would  suppose  I  was  gambling  and 
drinking,  and  going  on  like  the  boy  in  the  picture-book,  who 
began  in  the  church  choir  as  an  angel  and  ended  on  the 
gallows.  Why,  look  here,  I  can  give  you  back  the  money  in  a 
week.  I  only  want  it  for  a  week.  That 's  all.  If  you  think 
it's  such  a  crime  to  spend  a  hundred  pounds  now ' 

Mrs.  Wilding  got  up,  quickly  for  her,  and  went  to  her 
writing-table.  A  sudden  feeling — wrong  and  weak,  perhaps, 
she  thought  afterwards — had  come  to  her  that  she  could  not 
let  anything  stand  between  her  and  her  son  to-night,  that  she 
could  not  allow  the  peace  and  happiness  in  which  she  was  just 
beginning  to  rejoice  to  be  marred.  She  took  out  her  cheque- 
book from  a  drawer,  and  began  to  write  a  cheque.  Her  move- 
ment had  stopped  Felix's  outburst.  He  saw  what  she  was 
doing. 

'  Thanks,  mater,'  he  said. 

Mrs.  Wilding  blotted  the  cheque,  got  up,  and  gave  it  to  him. 
She  did  not  say  anything. 

'Thanks  awfully,'  Felix  muttered,  as  he  took  it. 

He  put  it  hastily  into  his  pocket. 


252  FELIX 

*  Is  it  safe  like  that?'  said  Mrs.  Wilding. 

*0h  yes,  of  course.     I  'm  just  going  out  to  look  round.' 

*  Wrap  up  well.     Put  on  your  coat.     It 's  very  damp.' 
♦Yes,  I  will.' 

He  went  off  to  the  village  post-office  to  send  the  promised 
telegram  to  Mrs.  Ismey.  Then  he  visited  the  horses  and  Mab, 
and  walked  round  the  damp  garden  in  the  dark.  He  felt  more 
comfortable  alone  after  what  had  happened.  Money  matters 
were  loathsome,  he  thought.  He  hated  discussing  them, 
especially  with  his  mother.  And  from  his  feelings  now  he 
suddenly  felt  able  to  gauge  Mrs.  Ismey's  when  she  asked  him 
for  the  cheque.  How  she  must  have  disliked  doing  it.  He 
knew  it  was  for  Lady  Caroline,  and  vaguely  connected  it  with 
the  revelation  that  she  took  morphia.  Perhaps  people  who 
took  morphia  did  wild  things  with  money  and  got  into 
difficulties  even  when  they  were  rich.  When  he  remembered 
the  big  house  in  Great  Cumberland  Place  it  seemed  very  odd 
that  he  should  be  giving  financial  help  to  its  mistress.  He 
stayed  out  in  the  garden  till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  kinder  to  go  back  to  his 
mother,  but,  after  the  money  incident,  he  knew  he  should  feel 
ill  at  ease  with  her. 

When  he  reached  his  bedroom  he  found  her  just  coming  out 
of  it. 

'  Hullo  ! '  he  said,  with  off-hand  cheeriness. 

'I  was  just  seeing  if  you'd  got  everything,'  she  said.  'You 
like  the  fire,  I  hope.' 

'  I  should  think  so.' 

•Welcome  home,  my  dear  boy,'  she  said.  'It  is  such  a 
comfort  to  have  you  again.' 

She  kissed  him.     There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

'  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come  pretty  often,'  she  added. 
'It  makes  the  house  so  different.' 

It  was  the  only  expression  she  allowed  herself  of  her  grief  in 
her  new  life  which  was  so  unlike  the  old.  And  when  she  was 
alone  in  her  room,  putting  on  her  black  silk  evening-gown,  she 
wondered  if  she  were  not  inclined  to  be  a  tiny  bit  selfish,  per- 
haps, a  little  inclined  to  try  to  monopolise  her  boy.  She 
resolved  that  she  would  never  press  him  to  come  home.  She 
would  leave  it  entirely  to  him. 

At  a  quarter-past  seven  the  hall-door  bell  rang  and,  in  a 
moment,  Margot  and  her  husband  walked  into  the  drawing-room. 
FeHx  had  just  come  down  and  was  standing  with  his  mother  by 
the  fire. 


FELIX  253 

Margot  wore  her  wedding-gown  turned  into  a  dinner-dress. 
She  came  in  looking  very  happy  and  rather  shy.  Stephen 
stepped  behind  her  with  an  air  of  calm  and  comfortable  pro- 
prietorship. After  Margot  had  kissed  her  brother  warmly, 
Stephen  and  he  shook  hands. 

'  I  am  glad  to  see  you  back,'  said  Stephen,  with  his  decent 
air  of  saying  what  was  appropriate.  '  You  must  be  glad  to 
get  out  of  the  London  gloom  in  this  weather,  especially  for  the 
Sunday.' 

'  I  'm  glad  to  be  here,  but  I  don't  know  that  London  is  any 
worse  than  the  country  in  bad  weather,' said  Felix.  'There's 
always  plenty  to  do  there  at  any  rate.' 

Dinner  was  announced. 

'Will  you  give  your  arm  to  the  bride,  Felix?'  said  Mrs. 
Wilding,  with  a  happy  smile. 

Margot  blushed,  and  Felix  suddenly  felt  exactly  as  if  he  were 
made  of  cast-iron.  He  had  thought  that  he  would  have  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  his  sister,  but  he  felt  like  a  stranger  with  her  now 
that  she  belonged  to  Stephen.  Their  intimacy  rose  between 
him  and  Margot  like  a  stone  wall.  The  clergyman  looked  as  if 
he  had  been  married  all  his  life,  as  if  he  had  been  born  married 
to  Margot.  And  not  only  that.  He  was  not  merely  the  con- 
tented husband  in  Hill  House,  he  was  also  the  happy  and 
respectful  son.  It  seemed  to  Felix  that  while  he  had  been  in 
London  his  mother  and  Stephen  had  learnt  to  understand  each 
other  with  a  quiet  completeness  unknown  to  them  before. 
Stephen  seemed  more  than  one  of  the  family  as  he  sat  at  the 
dinner-table  peacefully  supping  his  soup.  He  was  like  all  the 
ancestors  and  descendants  of  the  Wilding  stock  rolled  into  one 
decent-minded,  self-possessed  clergyman.  When  Felix  looked 
at  his  brother-in-law  he  felt  as  if  he  himself  were  an  outsider,  a 
vagrant,  not  a  Wilding  at  all. 

'And  how  are  things  in  London?'  asked  Stephen,  when 
the  fish  was  handed  round.  'Do  you  feel  yourself  at  home 
there  yet?' 

*0h  dear,  yes,  quite,'  answered  Felix. 

'  Not  a  little  strange  and  confused  at  first,  trying  to  find  your 
way  about  the  streets?' 

This  little  sketch  of  his  situation  in  the  metropolis  pre- 
sented itself  to  Felix  as  a  gross  and  unpardonable  cari- 
cature. 

'  I  don't  feel  at  all  strange  or  confused,'  he  replied.  'I  don't 
know  why  I  should,  exactly.' 

'  Oh,  well,  you  see  you  are  country  bred,'  returned  Stephen. 


254  FELIX 

with  the  calm  aplomb  of  one  resting  upon  the  granite  foundations 
of  undoubted  fact. 

'  Yes,'  said  Margot. 

Since  her  marriage  she  had  lost  something  of  her  anxious 
dependence,  acquired  something  of  matronly  ease.  It  did  not 
amount  at  all  to  dignity  as  yet,  but  it  was  sufficient  to  surprise 
and  irritate  Felix,  who  was  ready  to  feel  personally  injured  by 
any  change  wrought  in  his  sister  by  Stephen.  This  little  inter- 
jection of  Margot  stung  him. 

*  I  didn't  know  I  was  a  bumpkin,'  he  exclaimed.  '  But 
perhaps  I  am  without  knowing  it.' 

'  On  no,  Felix,'  said  his  mother.  '  Now  I  feel  lost  in  London, 
and  all  the  noises  confuse  me.  If  I  had  to  spend  a  month  there 
I  don't  know  what  I  should  do.  The  air  makes  me  feel  breath- 
less, and  I  am  always  afraid  of  being  run  over.' 

'  Oh,  you  'd  soon  get  accustomed  to  all  that,'  said  Felix 
shortly.  '  It  really  is  a  great  mistake  to  live  too  much  in  the 
country.  It  gives  people  wrong  ideas  of  things  and  absurd 
notions  about  life  in  towns.' 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  he  was  thinking  what  Marza 
would  feel  if  he  were  at  Hill  House  that  night,  Marza  who  called 
London  a  city  of  barbarians. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  all  the  capitals  in  Europe,'  he  added, 
looking  rather  defiantly  at  Stephen. 

It  was  outrageous  that  he,  who  had  sat  with  Marza  and 
received  the  confession  of  King  Marshall,  men  famous  in  the 
world,  should  be  represented  as  tottering,  anxious,  even  terrified, 
about  the  streets,  trying  to  get  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  the 
omnibuses.     Pshaw ! 

His  mind  had  already,  in  its  usual  fashion,  exaggerated  the 
thing  that  vexed  it. 

'How  does  the  school  suit  you?'  asked  Stephen,  changing 
the  conversation  with  a  quiet  deliberateness  that  made  Felix 
feel  small. 

'  Very  well,  thanks.' 

'Yes,  do  tell  us  something  about  it,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding, 
with  a  sort  of  anxious  cheerfulness.  'Are  the  other  pupils 
nice  ? ' 

'Yes,  they're  all  right.' 

He  felt  an  invincible  reluctance  to  talk  about  any  part  of  his 
life  in  London.  It  was  quite  reasonable  that  his  people  should 
wish  to  know  something  about  it.  He  knew  that.  And  yet  he 
felt  almost  a  physical  disinclination  to  discuss  or  describe  it. 

'  How  many  of  them  are  there? '  said  Stephen,  taking  a  small 


FELIX  255 

help  of  roast-mutton,  and  slightly  moving  his  ears  in  the  way 
Felix  so  much  disHked. 

'Oh,  I  don't  know.     About  fourteen,  I  should  think.' 

'  I  am  longing  for  you  to  write  a  book,  Felix,'  said  Margot. 
'I  know  you  could.' 

She  spoke  eagerly  and,  for  the  first  time,  with  the  complete 
naturalness  and  open  admiration  of  the  sister  of  former  days. 
If  Stephen  had  not  been  there  Felix  would  have  been  pleased, 
but  he  always  felt  self-conscious  with  the  clergyman. 

'  It's  not  so  easy  to  write  a  book,'  he  said. 

*A  book  worth  writing,' assented  Stephen.  'There  is  some 
sad  rubbish  written  nowadays,  and  the  strange  and  regrettable 
thing  is  that  the  writers  often  become  quite  well  known.  Only 
yesterday  I  was  reading  a  review  of  a  book  by  an  Italian  author 
in  the  Discriminator.  It  is  evidently  the  most  wicked  nonsense 
and  was  completely  condemned.  Yet  the  critic  spoke  as  if  the 
author  had  become  quite  a  famous  man.' 

'Who  was  the  author?'  asked  Felix  quickly. 

'  I  believe  he  is  called  Marza.  The  name  of  the  book  was  a 
very  foolish  one,  I  thought,  and  did  not  certainly  suggest  a 
subject  at  all  likely  to  do  good  to  any  one.' 

'  I  remember  you  told  me,'  interposed  Margot,  in  eager  agree- 
ment with  her  husband.  'It  was  Ashfs.  And  the  critic  said 
that  such  ashes  were  fit  only  for  the  dust-bin.' 

Felix's  cheeks  flamed  with  contempt  and  anger.  He  quite 
forgot  any  dislike  he  had  felt  to  the  book,  any  consciousness  he 
had  had  of  Marza's  egoism,  selfishness  or  morbidity.  At  that 
moment  he  was  as  indignant  as  if  his  dearest  friend  were  being 
attacked,  and  the  lawless  liberty,  the  frank  defiance  of  Marza's 
life  and  thought  were  entirely  glorious  to  him.  That  a  Stephen 
Bosanfield  should  venture  even  to  express  an  opinion  on  a 
Marza  struck  him  as  a  crime. 

'I  have  read  the  book  and  it  is  splendid,'  he  exclaimed. 
'Simply  splendid.  And  I  know  Marza  too.  He  is  the  most 
delightful  man  in  the  world.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot  looked  astonished. 

'  How  did  you  come  to  meet  such  a  man?'  said  Stephen, 
showing  also  some,  though  much  less,  surprise.  The  Discrimin- 
ator seemed,  I  thought,  to  hint  that  he  was  a  person  without  re- 
ligion, who  led,  and  even  inculcated,  a  very  unseemly  sort  of  life.' 

'Oh,  unseemly!'  cried  Felix, 

In  that  word  all  that  he  was  ready  to  rise  up  in  arms  against 
seemed  enshrined  as  in  a  dreadful  casket  of  mean  and  miserable 
design. 


256  FELIX 

'Why,  I  met  him  at  dinner  at  your  own  friends!'  he  added 
triumphantly.  '  I  dare  say  Mr.  Ismey  published  the  English 
translation  of  that  very  book.' 

'  Perhaps  so.  I  did  not  look  to  see,'  said  Stephen.  '  I  am 
afraid  Francis  is  sometimes  a  little  too  much  influenced  by  his 
wife  in  what  books  he  publishes.     She  has  very  odd  ideas.' 

He  shut  his  mouth  with  a  snap. 

*  She 's  got  brains,  thank  Heaven  ! '  said  Felix,  almost  fiercely. 

Some  evil  angel  was  surely  tempting  his  brother-in-law  to 
touch  on  every  subject  which  could  lead  to  controversy. 

'She  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  clever,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  with 
obvious  anxiety  to  restore  calm  to  the  conversation.  '  I  dare  say 
she  is  often  a  great  help  to  her  husband.' 

Felix  laughed.  He  could  not  help  it.  His  mother's  attempt 
to  turn  Mrs.  Ismey  into  a  sort  of  pattern  wife  struck  him  as 
singularly  ridiculous.  He  thought  of  his  visit  to  Marzn. 
Merciful  Heavens !  How  true  had  been  the  poet's  remark 
about  the  sound  of  the  tarantella  and  the  frayed  cord.  What 
on  earth  could  his  mother  and  Stephen  understand  of  him,  or 
of  the  young  generation  that  lives  in  cities,  that  is  keen  of 
intellect,  and  passionate  of  heart,  and  hot  with  desire,  that 
looks  up  and  sees  how  huge  is  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  that 
realises  how  short  is  the  time  for  wandering.  He  forgot  that  he 
had  felt  constrained  and  guilty  with  Marza,  nervous  when  he 
peeped,  as  it  were,  into  the  poet's  intimate  life.  Everything 
that  was  in  him  just  then  seemed  pouring,  like  some  furious 
torrent,  towards  the  realm  where  such  men  live  in  freedom,  and 
in  contempt  of  all  opinions  save  their  own, 

'I  don't  know  whether  she's  a  help  to  her  husband  or  not,' 
he  said  ;  '  but  at  any  rate  she  reads  books  for  their  literature, 
not  for  their  moral.  Why,  if  the  moral  of  a  book  makes  its 
merit,  I  suppose  the  Fairdiild  Family  is  a  great  work.' 

He  laughed  again,  briefly,  looking  at  Stephen. 

'Literature  ought  to  do  good,' said  Stephen,  with  calmness, 
even  with  a  certain  air  of  authority.  '  If  it  does  not  it  is  certain 
to  do  harm.  And  all  that  does  harm  is  more  than  worthless ;  it 
is  wicked.' 

Felix  opened  his  mouth  to  make  a  vehement  retort,  but  just 
as  he  was  going  to  speak  something  in  the  assured  and  almost 
phlegmatic  expression  of  his  brother-in-law's  brick-red  face 
struck  him  and  he  remained  silent.  What  was  the  good  of 
putting  forth  his  views  in  such  a  circle?  He  could  see  by  Margot's 
eyes  that  she  was  hanging  on  Stephen's  words.  His  mother  no 
doubt  agreed  with  them  too.     Of  course  she  did.     He  began  to 


FELIX  257 

hate  the  very  idea  of  all  that  did  good.  And  what  was  good? 
Had  not  the  brain  a  right  to  the  food  it  craved  for  as  well  as 
the  soul?  And  was  it  to  be  fed  everlastingly  on  milk  for  babes, 
or  Bosanfield's  food  for  parishioners?  The  soul  calls  most 
loudly  for  love,  human  or  divine.  But  does  not  the  brain  call 
for  the  many  clashing  wonders  of  life  that  it  may  review  them, 
at  least,  ere  it  reject  them  ? 

For  the  rest  of  dinner  Felix  felt  as  if  he  were  sitting  with  three 
enemies.  The  talk  was  uneasy  and  was  chiefly  carried  on  by 
Mrs.  Wilding  and  Stephen.  It  often  fell  on  parish  concerns. 
When  at  length  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room Felix  was  obliged  to  come  out  of  the  shell  into  which 
he  had  scornfully  retired. 

'Will  you  smoke  ?'  he  said  to  Stephen. 

'  No  thanks,  I  never  do,'  replied  his  brother-in-law. 

'  Well,  I  will  if  you  don't  mind.' 

He  lit  his  cigarette,  wondering  what  on  earth  they  could  find 
to  talk  about. 

'How  do  you  think  your  dear  mother  is  looking?'  said 
Stephen,  playing  with  a  dessert-knife,  which  he  kept  on  lifting 
about  an  inch  from  the  table  and  then  dropping. 

'  Oh,  all  right,  isn't  she  ?  ' 

'  We  thought  she  was  rather  pallid  lately.' 

*But  she  always  is  pale.     I  don't  see  any  difference.' 

*  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  We  were  afraid  perhaps  the  dulness 
of  being  alone  here  was  preying  a  little  on  her  spirits.' 

It  immediately  occurred  to  Felix  that  this  might  be  meant  for 
a  covert  rebuke  to  him.  If  so,  he  thought  it  came  peculiarly  ill 
from  the  man  who  had  taken  away  Margot. 

'But  I  suppose  she  sees  a  lot  of  Margot,  doesn't  she?'  he 
said,  in  a  strained  voice,  shooting  a  hostile  glance  at  his  brother- 
in-law,  who  was  gazing  meditatively  at  the  table,  and  still 
fidgeting  with  the  dessert-knife. 

'  Naturally,  a  good  deal.  But  of  course  Margot  has  got  her 
duties  now.' 

'Why,  what  duties?' 

*  At  home  and  in  the  parish.' 

'I  should  think  her  duty  to  her  own  mother  would  come 
before  her  duty  to  the  parish,'  said  Felix. 

The  sound  of  the  word  parish  began  to  make  him  sick. 

'One  has  to  make  certain  sacrifices  for  the  common  good,' 
returned  Stephen.  'Inclination  cannot  always  come  first.  If 
it  did  we  should  have  no  missionaries  nnd  no  missionaries'  wives. 
The  Bible  itself  teaches  us  that  family  ties  are  not  everything.' 

R 


258  FELIX 

Felix  was  staring  at  his  brother-in-law's  hand,  as  it  mechani- 
cally lifted  and  let  fall  the  silver  knife.  Why  was  it  that 
Stephen  said  and  did  everything  that  most  acutely  irritated  him? 
This  little  movement  alone  drove  him  almost  mad.  He  looked 
away  and  made  a  sudden,  violent  resolve  to  be  calm,  even 
philosophic.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  ?  Stephen  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  conduct  of  his  life,  thank  Heaven, 
so  it  was  folly  in  him  to  allow  himself  to  be  made  so  easily 
angry. 

'  I  should  think  it  might  be  very  interesting  to  be  a  missionary,' 
he  said,  with  the  intention,  fortunately  realised,  of  giving  Stephen 
a  conversational  lead. 

Henceforth,  during  the  short  time  they  remained  in  the 
dining-room,  the  talk,  or  rather  Stephen's  monologue,  flowed. 
He  was  well  informed  on  missionary  enterprise  and,  as  he  pro- 
duced his  knowledge,  forgot  to  fidget.  Felix  appeared  to  be 
listening  to  him  attentively.  In  reality  he  was  thinking,  with  a 
sort  of  libertine's  relish,  of  the  life — so  mercifully  different  from 
that  now  being  exposed — to  which  he  would  return  on  Monday. 

When  he  was  alone  with  his  mother,  after  the  punctual  de- 
parture at  ten  o'clock  of  Margot  and  her  husband,  he  could  not 
resist  saying  : 

*  Mater,  if  I  lived  with  Stephen  for  a  hundred  years  I  should 
never  find  a  subject  we  could  agree  on.  It  seems  awfully  odd 
to  me  that  my  own  sister  can  be  married  to  him.' 

'  Oh,  but  Felix  I  am  sure  you  would  agree  with  him  about 
many  things.' 

'  Never,  never.  I  expect  you  will  be  shocked  at  what  I  'm 
going  to  say,  but  I  can't  help  it.' 

'What  is  it?' 

Mrs.  Wilding  was  sitting  by  the  fire.  She  looked  very  tired, 
but  Felix  did  not  notice  it.     He  was  not  tired. 

'  The  more  I  live  the  more  it  seems  to  me  that  religion 
narrows  people  and  squeezes  up  their  intellects.' 

Mrs.  Wilding  did  not  say  anything  for  a  minute.  An  anxious 
expression  came  into  her  face,  but  quickly  died  away  as  she 
summoned  that  carefully  sought-for  father's  spirit  to  her  aid. 

'I  am  not  clever,'  she  said  at  length,  'and  you  are.' 

'  Rot,  mater ! '  cried  Felix,  in  a  voice  that  protested  but  did 
not  sound  ill-pleased.     'I  wish  to  goodness  I  was.' 

'But  don't  you  think,'  she  continued,  'that  it  is  dangerous  to 
put  the  intellect  before  everything  else?  I  sometimes  fancy 
that  quite  stupid  people  can  tell  things  just  by  their  hearts  that 
very  clever  people  could  never  guess  at  with  their  heads.     It  is 


FELIX  259 

a  great  help  to  many  of  us  if  it  is  so.  And  if  it  were  not  we 
might  even  be  turned  away  from  our  behef  in  God  by  a  brilliant 
man  or  woman  who  did  not  beheve  in  Him.  But  how  impossible 
that  is.' 

'How  do  you  know?'  he  said,  with  good-natured  mischief. 
'Has  any  one  ever  tried  to  make  you  an  atheist?' 

'  No.     But  nobody  could.' 

•  You  conceited  old  mater  ! ' 

Mrs.  Wilding  smiled.  This  little  talk  by  the  fire,  free,  un- 
restrained, brought  her  a  happiness  she  had  not  known  for  a 
long  time.  She  had  her  boy  to  herself  and  he  was  being  natural 
with  her. 

'I  hope  not,'  she  answered.  'But  I  think  God  teaches  us 
much  more  through  our  hearts  than  perhaps  we  often  realise.' 

'  Well,  but  then  if  you  love  anybody  very  much  you  ought  to 
be  able  to  understand  them.' 

'  And  don't  you  think  it  often  is  so  ?  ' 

'H'm!  No,  I  don't  think  it  follows.  But  you're  tired  and 
you  ought  to  go  to  bed,  instead  of  sitting  there  arguing  away 
into  the  watches  of  the  night.' 

It  had  just  struck  him  that  his  mother  was  pale  and  that, 
despite  the  happy  expression  in  them,  her  eyes  looked  very 
weary.  Their  parting  at  his  bedroom  door  was  comfortable  in 
its  equality  of  two  affections,  a  rare  thing,  anti  when  Felix  was 
in  bed  he  was  conscious  of  an  unusual  sensation  of  serenity, 
security.  The  enclosed  garden  was  outside  his  window  instead 
of  the  London  street  haunted  by  unknown  wanderers.  And 
just  across  the  landing  was  a  possession — a  heart  that  loved  him 
completely.  Deep  was  the  silence.  In  it,  ere  he  fell  askep,  he 
felt  rather  like  a  child  again.  The  little  talk  with  his  mother 
had  banished  a  sensation  of  dawning  jealousy,  which  he  had  not 
acknowledged  to  himself,  but  which  had  nevertheless  been 
stirred  up  in  him  by  the  sight  of  Stephen's  family  air  in  Hill 
House.  Deep  was  the  silence,  deep  as  the  silence  of  the  forest 
near  La  Maison  des  Alouettes.  He  shut  his  eyes  and  called  up 
the  tailor's  hut.  How  wonderful  his  life,  with  its  changes,  was 
to  him.  Just  before  sleep  came  the  thought,  silly  he  told  him- 
self, with  drowsy  incredulity  of  his  own  mental  statement,  that 
no  other  life  could  seem  quite  so  wonderful  to  the  human  being 
living  it  as  his  life  did  to  him. 

When  Felix  and  his  mother  came  in  after  morning  church  the 
next  day  the  butler,  with  an  air  of  rather  deep  importance,  as  if 
the  bearer  of  possibly  fateful  tidinc^^s,  walked  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  salver  on  which  lay  a  brown  envelope. 


2G0  FELIX 

'  A  telegram  for  you,  ma'am,'  he  said. 

'  A  telegram  on  Sunday  ! '  said  Mrs.  Wilding,  in  some  as- 
tonishment. 'What  can  it  be?  I  hope  nothing  dreadful  has 
happened.' 

She  looked  at  the  envelope,  then  opened  it  quickly.  As  she 
read  it  Felix  watched  her  with  some  curiosity.  He  wondered, 
too,  why  his  mother  should  have  a  telegram  on  Sunday.  He 
never  remembered  such  a  thing  happening  before.  As  his 
mother  read  a  look  of  great  surprise,  even  a  startled  look,  came 
into  her  face.  She  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  hesitating.  Then 
she  said : 

'  I  am  very  sorry,  Felix.  I  have  made  a  mistake.  This  must 
be  meant  for  you.' 

Felix  turned  scarlet.  A  sudden  suspicion  of  what  the  tele 
gram  might  be  darted  into  his  mind. 

'  For  me  ! '  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  and  trying  to  look 
indifferent. 

*  Yes.     There  was  only  "  Wilding  "  on  the  envelope.' 

She  gave  him  the  telegram,  and  added : 

'  I  will  go  up  and  take  off  my  things.' 

She  went  out  of  the  room  at  once.     Felix  read : 

'You  dear  boy  such  a  weight  off  my  mind  to  know  it  can  be 
managed  love  Valeria.' 

'  Love — Valeria.'  And  his  mother  had  read  it !  He  had  felt 
guilty  as  he  came  out  of  Marza's  room  at  the  Carlton,  but  now — 
His  whole  body  tingled.  His  sensations  were  so  many  and  so 
mingled  that,  at  first,  a  consciousness  of  hot,  dull  confusion 
dominated  him.  Then  he  longed  to  start  off  at  once  for 
London  without  seeing  his  mother  before  he  went.  But  he 
must  see  her.  He  must  sit  down  and  go  through  lunch  alone 
with  her.  He  stared  at  the  envelope.  Yes,  there  was  only 
'  Wilding  '  on  it.  Why  had  Mrs.  Ismey  been  so  careless  ?  He 
felt  a  sort  of  fury  at  her  carelessness.  He  read  the  telegram 
again  and  was  amazed  at  the  wording  of  it.  '  Love — Valeria.' 
What  must  his  mother  think?  What  did  he  think  himself?  He 
said  to  himself  that  of  course  Mrs.  Ismey  had  been  carried 
away  by  an  impulse  of  gratitude.  After  all  he  had  been  able  to 
do  something  for  her  and  to  do  it  promptly.  He  crushed  the 
paper  up  in  his  hand  and  ran  up  to  his  bedroom. 

Cold  water  was  what  he  wanted  before  he  faced  his  mother  at 
lunch. 

When  the  gong  sounded  he  came  down.  He  wondered 
whether  she  would  make  any  further  allusion  to  the  telegram, 


FELIX  261 

and  tried  to  decide  what  to  say  if  she  did.  But  he  did  not 
arrive  at  any  conclusion.  As  he  entered  the  drawing-room 
where  she  was  waiting  for  him  he  stole  a  hasty  glance  at  her. 
She  looked  calm  and  not  specially  troubled,  he  thought.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  had  expected  her  to  look  like.  At  lunch 
they  talked,  but  without  any  of  the  freedom  and  comfort  of  the 
preceding  night.  Felix  felt  stiff  with  self-consciousness  and 
constraint.     He  was  thankful  when  the  meal  was  over. 

'Are  you  coming  to  afternoon  church?'  his  mother  asked,  as 
they  were  getting  up  from  the  table. 

'Yes— no.  I  don't  know  that  I  shall.  I  think  I  '11  take  Mab 
for  a  run  in  the  valley,'  he  answered  hastily,  longing  to  be  alone. 
'  Don't  wait  for  me  if  I  'm  late.' 

Solitude  was  a  necessity  to  him  just  then.  As  he  started  out 
for  his  walk  with  the  mastiff  he  stopped  at  the  village  post-box 
to  drop  into  it  an  envelope  containing  the  cheque  endorsed  and 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Ismey.  He  had  not  written  even  a  note. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  so  he  said  nothing.  Church  was 
over  and  darkness  was  falling  v/hen  he  came  back  from  the 
valley.  On  the  road  he  passed  several  rustics  going  to  their 
homes.  They  were  all  dressed  in  their  best  clothes,  and  walked 
with  a  sort  of  lolloping  stiffness,  holding  their  arms  well  out  from 
their  sides.  Although  the  evening  light  was  faint,  and  they  only 
saw  him  for  an  instant,  it  seemed  to  Felix  as  if  they  divined  at 
once  the  turmoil  of  his  mind. 

Near  the  school  three  youths  went  by.  They  were  laughing 
lou  ly,  guffawing  with  the  countrified  abandon  which  suggests  a 
sort  of  heavy,  and  almost  innocent,  impropriety.  Felix  looked 
round  when  he  had  passed  them,  and  saw  that  they  were  staring 
after  him  and  that  they  had  stopped  laughing.  He  hurried  on. 
At  that  moment  he  longed  for  the  huge  secrecy  of  London,  and 
had  an  absurd,  an  almost  mad  sensation  of  being  a  criminal 
standing  under  an  electric  light.  He  cur^^ed  himst  If  for  what  he 
called  his  rawness.  It  was  unworthy  even  of  a  schoolboy,  and 
he  was  a  man. 

'Must  you  really  go  back  to-morrow?'  his  mother  asked  at  tea. 

*  Yes,  I  'm  afraid  so.' 
•By  the  early  train  ?' 

*  I  think  I  'd  better.     If  I  don't  I  shall  be  late  at  the  school.' 
'Very  well.     I'll  order  the  carriage,' she  said  quietly.     'Do 

tell  me  a  little  al)Out  the  school.     I  really  know  nothing.' 

This  time  P'elix  was  thankful  to  talk  about  Sam  and  the  pupils. 
His  mother  sat  on  the  sofa  listt  ning.     Presently  she  said  : 

*  I  think  I  must  put  my  feet  up.' 


262  FELIX 

'  Why  ?     Are  you  tired  ? ' 

'  I  am  rather.     Sunday  is  a  tiring  day.* 

She  lay  down,  spreading  a  rug  over  her  feet. 

'  I  say,  mater,  you  aren't  seedy,  are  you  ? '  he  said. 

•  No,  I  don't  know  that  I  am.     But  I  get  tired  rather  easily 
It  is  old  age,  I  suppose.' 

She  smiled. 

'Nonsense — old  age  !     Why,  you  are  quite  young  still ' 

'  I  don't  feel  young,'  she  answered.  '  But  I  cannot  expect 
to.  I  am  really  very  fortunate  to  have  such  good  health  as 
I  do.  Tell  me  a  little  more  about  Mr.  Carringbridge.  Should 
Hike  him?' 

There  was  always  supper  on  Sunday  at  Hill  House  instead 
of  dinner,  in  order  that  the  servants  might  have  less  to  do. 
When  it  was  over  the  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  half-past 
nine.  Felix  was  starting  at  a  quarter-past  eight  on  the  following 
morning. 

'  I  shall  go  to  bed  early,'  he  said,  '  so  as  not  to  be  sleepy 
to-morrow  morning.     Breakfast  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  I  suppose  ?' 

'Yes.  I  have  told  the  servants.  Your  visit  has  gone  so 
quickly.' 

'  I  '11  come  again  very  soon.' 

At  ten,  just  as  they  were  preparing  to  go  to  bed,  Mrs, 
Wilding  said,  as  with  an  effort : 

'  Felix.' 

♦Well,  mater?' 

'I  have  something  to  say  to  you.' 

Instantly  Felix  felt  as  if  his  whole  nature  stood  to  arms. 
He  knew,  rather  than  guessed,  that  his  mother  was  going 
to  speak  about  the  telegram. 

'Why,  what  is  it?'  he  said. 

'  I  have  been  thinking  most  of  the  day  whether  I  ought  to 
say  anything  about  it  or  not,'  Mrs.  Wilding  said,  still  speaking 
with  an  obvious  effort;  'but  you — you  have  no  father  now, 
and  that  is  a  terrible  loss  to  a  boy  on  the  threshold  of  life.' 

'  I  'm  old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself,'  Felix  said  coldly. 

He  longed  to  get  away  and  to  be  alone,  shut  up  safely  in 
his  bedroom.  Mrs.  Wilding  did  not  say  anything  more  for  a 
minute.  She  was  struggling  against  her  desire  to  keep  silence 
altogether.     At  last  she  said : 

•  As  you  know,  I  read  that  telegram  to-day  quite  by  accident.* 
•Well?' 

•  I  am  very  sorry  I  did  read  anything  of  yours.' 

•  It  doesn't  matter.     Why  should  it  ? ' 


FELIX  263 

He  spoke  defiantly  now. 

'I  do  not  say  it  does.  Still — Felix,  now  you  are  alone  in 
London,  I  hope  you  will  be  very  careful  with — with  women.' 

Mrs.  Wilding's  voice  faltered  slightly.  A  flush  had  risen  in 
her  pale  cheeks.  In  her  whole  life  she  had  never  before  felt 
such  painful  discomfort. 

'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,'  said  Felix. 

'That  was— that  telegram  was  not  quite ' 

'  I  can't  discuss  that  telegram,  mater.  I  'd  better  tell  you 
at  once.     You  ought  never  to  have  opened  it.' 

*  How  could  I  know  ? '  she  said  simply. 

*  I  don't  say  you  could.  But  anyhow,  the  least  you  could 
do,  having  opened  it,  was  to  say  nothing  about  it.  I  should 
have  thought  you  'd  see  that.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  sense 
of  delicacy  about  people's  private  concerns.' 

It  was  the  most  brutal  thing  he  had  ever  said,  but  he  was 
too  hot,  too  quivering  with  sensitiveness  and  reserve,  to  under- 
stand the  brutality  of  it.  He  wanted  to  protect  his  reserve 
at  whatever  cost. 

'Good  night,  mater.     I  'm  off  to  bed,'  he  said. 

Without  kissing  her,  or  touching  her  hand,  he  left  the 
room,  went  upstairs,  and  was  quickly  in  his  bedroom  behind 
a  locked  door. 

At  half-past  eleven,  when  he  was  lying  awake,  and  still  quiver- 
ing like  a  horse  lashed  with  the  whip,  he  heard  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door.  He  did  not  answer.  The  tap  came  again,  and 
he  heard  his  mother's  voice  say  : 

'  Are  you  awake  ?     It 's  mother.' 

He  guessed  that  she  could  not  sleep  till  she  had  wished  him 
good  night.  He  had  no  fear  of  her  again  alluding  to  the  tele- 
gram.    But  he  could  not  reply.     He  did  not  feel  exactly  angry. 

He  simply  felt  that,  after  what  had  occurred,  he  would  rather 
die  than  be  kissed  by  his  mother.  So  he  made  no  answer,  and 
lay  perfectly  still. 

After  a  moment  he  heard  a  very  faint  rustle  on  the  landing, 
and  presently  the  sound  of  a  door  closing.  She  had  gone 
back  to  her  room. 

He  lay  awake,  wishing  that  he  could  have  brought  himself 
to  endure  her  kiss. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

FELIX  had  secretly  hoped  that  his  mother  would  not  be 
down  the  next  morning  to  bid  him  farewell,  and  that  he 
would  be  able  at  the  last  moment  to  rush  into  her  room  with 
all  the  traveller's  hurry,  give  her  a  hasty  kiss,  and  be  off  with 
few  words  and  fewer  glances  ;  but  when  he  came  into  the  dining- 
room  at  a  quarter  to  eight  she  was  already  there,  sitting  in  her 
place  before  the  silver  tea-urn.  He  kissed  her  quickly  and 
standing  rather  behind  her. 

'  You  oughtn't  to  have  got  up,'  he  said. 

*  I  want  to  see  as  much  of  you  as  I  can,'  she  replied.  *  And 
I  shall  have  all  day  to  lie  down  in  afterwards.' 

The  words  struck  him  for  a  moment.  He  felt  the  acuteness 
of  the  difference  between  her  life  and  his,  the  emptiness  and 
the  solitude  of  the  one,  the  fulness  and  the  companionship  of 
the  other. 

'  I  wish  you  would  have  some  one  to  stay  with  you,'  he  said, 
drinking  his  tea  as  if  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 

'  Oh,  I  am  very  well  as  I  am,'  she  answered.  *  I  do  not 
care  for  many  people  and  a  visitor  might  find  it  dull.' 

And  again  a  vision  of  a  grey  life  dawned  in  his  imagination. 
It  died  out  when  he  was  in  the  carriage.  He  drove  himself 
in  the  dogcart,  and  turned,  as  he  started,  to  flourish  his  whip 
to  the  black  figure  standing  on  the  doorstep.  Just  at  that 
moment  the  vision  was  very  clear  within  him  and  stirred  some- 
thing in  his  heart.  But  his  mare  trotted  briskly  in  the  sharp 
morning  air.  The  country  things  stood  round  in  the  light, 
tremulous  mist  to  greet  him.  And  beyond  them,  the  way  he 
was  going,  was  London  with  all  its  bells,  its  cries,  its  incidents. 
The  vision  faded  as  the  mare  pulled  against  the  rein,  and  the 
fluttering  touch  was  removed  from  his  heart. 

Youth  had  its  way. 

He  forced  himself  to  work  at  Sam's,  and  the  excitement  of 
his  mind — for  now  he  was  near  the  sender  of  the  telegram  and 
full  of  vague,  yet  acute,  anticipations — helped  him  to  do  what 
was  for  him  good  work.     There  was  energy,  blood  in  it,  young, 

264 


FELIX  265 

careless  fire,  and  the  pulse  of  a  racer  quickening  to  the  post. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  at  Sam's  he  felt  that  he 
had  grip,  scme'.hing  at  least  of  power.  In  the  late  afternoon, 
when  many  of  the  pupils  had  hastened  to  their  idleness,  he 
showed  up  what  he  had  done  to  Sam.  That  serene  personage 
was  seated  by  his  delicious  fire — his  fires  were  always  perfect, 
precisely  suited  to  the  temperature,  never  suggestive  either  of 
the  grey  ashes  of  regret  or  of  a  place  predestined  to  the  wicked 
— smoking  a  cigar  as  usual,  and  reading  a  volume  of  Froude 
with  tender  appreciation.  He  turned  his  head  as  Felix  came 
in  with  his  manuscript,  and,  seeing  it,  extended  a  soft,  white 
hand. 

'Sit  down,  Mr.  Wilding,  while  I  read  it,'  he  murmured.  *I 
will  read  it  now.  I  am  staying  in  London  to-night  to  make  a 
speech  at  a  Savages'  dinner.' 

Felix  sat  down  in  great  delight.  He  had  written  in  a  glow 
and  longed  for  a  judgment.  Sam  put  on  his  pince-nez.  He 
only  used  them  to  read  manuscript.  Looking  at  Felix  over  the 
gold  rims  of  the  glasses  with  his  radiant  eyes  he  said  : 

'Take  a  cigar,  Mr.  Wilding,  if  you  want  to  please  me.' 

'Thank  you  awfully,'  said  Felix,  surprised  at  the  honour, 
which  had  never  before  been  conferred  upon  him. 

He  took  one,  lit  it,  and  found  it  most  excellent.  He  sat  in 
attentive  silence,  looking  into  the  neat,  clear  fire  while  Sam  was 
reading.  The  rustling  of  his  pages  as  they  were  turned  by  the 
soft,  white  fingers,  gave  him  a  pleasant  little  thrill.  In  the 
falling  twilight  the  bourdon  of  the  traffic  of  the  Strand  seemed 
to  him  very  musical.  He  was  glad  to  be  back  in  London.  Its 
activities  fed  him  with  the  food  his  soul  demanded.  To  its 
cries  an  essential  cry  in  him  responded.  Not  silence  but  sound 
was  the  thing  his  youth  desired,  not  peace  but  the  strivings  of 
energy,  the  movement  onward,  the  mighty  flowing  of  the  torrent 
into  the  gulf  of  the  future. 

Sam  laid  down  the  manuscript,  took  off  his  pince-nez^  and 
looked  at  Felix  through  the  smoke  of  the  two  cigars. 

'You  will  certainly  get  on,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  said. 

*Do  you  think  I  shall?'  Felix  said  eagerly. 

•I  do  not  think.  I  say  you  will  certainly  get  on.  With  you 
it  is  merely  a  question  of  time,  and  questions  of  time  are  soon 
settled.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  you  will  get  on  as  a 
journalist.' 

'Oh,  but  how  then?' 

'You  have  a  good  deal  that  the  journalist  need  not  have. 
You  could  deal  with  psychology — later — more  powerfully  even 


266  FELIX 

than  with  incident.  By  incident  you  may  take  it  that  I  mean 
just  now  the  figures  carried  out  by  the  dancers  in  the  masque 
of  life.' 

He  paused  with  a  smile — his  leading-article  smile  Arliss 
irreverently  called  it.  Rhetorical  interrogation  was  conveyed 
by  it,  the  happy  question,  'Am  I  brilliant?' 

'But  that  power,  being  more  profound  than  the  merely 
descriptive  power  that  finds  food  for  its  energies  in  outward 
things,  develops  more  slowly.  Youth  shows  in  such  writing 
as  you  care  for,  and  undertake,  more  clearly  than  it  would  in 
writing  of  lesser  quality.  Live,  be  greedy  of  experience.  I 
dare  say  I  gave  you  that  advice  when  you  first  came.  I  usually 
do  give  it.  But  to  you,  now,  I  give  it  with  special  knowledge 
of  your  aptitudes.  If  you  dig  deep  you  will  certainly  find 
water-springs.' 

He  smiled  again  on  Felix's  enchanted  silence. 

'Are  you  cultivating  the  society  of  women?'  he  purred. 

The  blood  mounted  to  Felix's  forehead. 

'I  know  some,'  he  replied. 

*  Ah !  I  once  met  an  Englishman  who  spoke  very  perfect 
French.  I  asked  him  how  he  had  arrived  at  such  perfection. 
"  By  the  only  possible  way,"  he  replied.  "  Instead  of  a  mistress, 
I  took  a  maifresse."  I  fear  he  must  have  been  a  libertine. 
Still,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Wilding,  there  was  a  good  deal  in  it, 
there  was  really  a  good  deal  in  it.  Are  you  acquainted  with 
any  clever  women  ?  I  do  not  mean  bluestockings ;  I  mean 
what  I  say — clever  women.' 

'  Well,  I — I  know  Mrs.  Ismey,'  said  Felix,  half  reluctantly. 
He  did  not  wish  to  mention  her,  and  yet  he  was  driven  to. 

*  The  wife  of  the  publisher  ? '  said  Sam. 
•Yes.' 

*  I  have  met  her.' 

He  sat  looking  at  Felix  in  a  twinkling  silence  which,  to  the 
boy,  was  enigmatic. 

'She  is  quite  worthy  of  your  study,  quite  capable,  I  should 
say,  of  assisting  you  to  a  more  profound  psychology.  Good- 
bye. I  will  go  through  the  article  with  you  bit  by  bit  to-morrow. 
To  do  so  now  would  take  the  edge  off  our  sensations,  and  I 
always  hesitate  to  take  the  edge  off  anything.' 

Felix  went  out  and  left  him  by  the  neat,  clear  fire,  smiling. 

'  You  clever  brute ! '  Felix  muttered  to  himself  outside  the 
door. 

He  always  left  Sam  with  that  sort  of  feeling,  nor  was  the  noun 
malignant.     It  stood  for  Sam's  contented  cynicism,  analytical 


FELIX  2G7 

faculty  and  lack  of  expectation.  He  was  surely  never  disap- 
pointed. For  what  did  he  expect  of  any  one,  even  of  him- 
self? 

In  the  writing-hall  Felix  found  no  one  but  Paul  Chalmers, 
and  he  was  shutting  up  his  manuscripts  in  a  shiny  black  bag, 
and  putting  the  pink  lid  carefully  on  the  round  box  of  cream 
chocolates  from  which  he  sought  inspiration. 

'  Which  way  are  you  going  ? '  Felix  asked. 

He  had  no  idea  where  Chalmers  lived. 

'  I  shall  take  a  'bus  from  the  corner  by  Charing  Cross,  Mr. 
Wilding,'  said  Chalmers.  *I  always  think  it  clears  the  brain  to 
take  a  short  portion  of  exercise  after  labour,  the  labour  of  the 
intellect,  I  mean.' 

He  put  on  his  enormous  top-hat,  and  lifted  his  bag  from  the 
table. 

'  Shall  we  go  together  as  far  as  Charing  Cross  ? '  said 
Felix. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  need  of  companionship,  of  intercourse 
just  then,  for  he  was  feeling  rather  exultant. 

*  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  Mr.  Wilding,'  replied  Chalmers. 
'After  you.' 

I'hey  were  at  the  swing  door.  When  they  reached  the  Strand, 
they  found  a  slight  fog  brooding  over  its  turmoil.  Chalmers 
at  once  called  Felix's  attention  to  it. 

'Turneresque  effects,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  remarked.  'Bits  of 
Mr.  Whistler  all  round  us,  ain't — aren't  there?  I  take  note  of 
•f  all  as  I  go.  Mr.  Carringbridge  advises  the  procedure. 
'  Everything,"  he  says,  "  is  provender  to  the  active  mind."  I 
never  cease  to  endeavour  to  keep  mine  active.' 

He  walked  with  a  loose,  baggy  sort  of  stride,  which  was  rather 
grotesque,  and,  as  he  spoke,  swung  out  one  hand,  covered  by  a 
purplish-brown  kid  glove,  lined  with  wool,  and  edged  with  a  bit 
of  ragged  fur,  in  an  awkward  gesture  that  made  Felix  feel  almost 
ashamed  for  him.  There  was  something  tragic  about  Chalmers, 
the  tragedy  of  a  commonplace,  ineffcrtive  mind  struggling  to  be 
important  and  masterly,  yet  haunted  by  an  anxiety  which  was 
very  near  to  humbleness.  Felix  was  specially  conscious  of  it 
to-day,  because  he  was  specially  conscious  that  he  really  had 
some  of  the  power  which  Chalmers  struggled  fer,  as  a  man 
entombed  in  a  narrow  well  struggles  to  lift  himself  somehow, 
anyhow,  to  the  light. 

'Activity  is  the  great  thing,'  continued  Chalmers,  shouldering 
his  way  through  the  thronging  pedestrians  upon  the  narrow 
pavement,  'and  the  steady  acquirement  of  useful  knowledge. 


268  FELIX 

Do  you  go  much  to  the  reading-room  of  the  British  Museum, 
Mr.  Wilding?' 

'  I  have  never  been  there,'  said  FeHx.  *  I  say,  don't  bother  to 
call  me  "  Mr."  Wilding.' 

'That  makes  one  conscious  of  the  smallness  of  one's  powers,' 
said  Chalmers.  *  And  yet  comes  the  thought  afterwards — what 
man  has  done  man  can  do.' 

He  shook  his  head.  Felix  could  not  help  observing  that  he 
was  hoping  to  be  leonine. 

*And  so  one  strives,  keeping  in  mind  all  them — those  that 
have  striven  in  the  past.' 

Felix  was  almost  irresistibly  moved  to  have  it  out  with 
Chalmers,  to  be  truthful  with  him,  to  tell  him,  '  Look  here,  you 
are  aiming  at  a  target  you  will  never  hit.'  But  his  companion 
was  in  an  unusually  talkative  mood,  and  continued : 

'  Oh  Mr.  Wilding,  you  don't  know  what  life  is  to  me  now. 
Piano-tuning  is  a  dreadful  business,  it  really  is.  All  them— 
those  years  I  spent  at  it  seems  like  a  sort  of  nightmare  now,  as 
I  might  say.  Day  after  day  getting  instruments  in  tune,  and 
feeling  all  the  time  as  one  was  made  for  better  things  if  one  but 
had  the  chance  to  strike  at  them.  Often  and  often,  when 
running  up  a  scale,  have  I  known  I  was  unsuited  to  the  profes- 
sion. And  yet  I  was  in  great  request  for  the  job.  But  now  I  'm 
in  the  right  line,  and  I  can  put  my  heart  in  it.  I  don't  speak 
like  this  to  every  one,  Mr.  Wilding,  but  you  have  been  so  kind 
that  I  do  feel  I  can  open  out  a  bit  to  you.' 

How  could  Felix  speak  the  truth  to  him?  After  all,  he  was 
so  eager  to  succeed  that  perhaps  he — no.  But  there  are  some 
hair-shirts  that  certain  people  cannot  put  on.  The  hair-shirt  of 
truth-telling  to  Chalmers  was  too  rough  for  the  skin  of  Felix. 

'You  know  I  wish  you  success,'  he  said,  with  a  forced  energy. 

He  watched  the  lanky  figure  mounting  to  the  summit  of  the 
'bus,  pursued,  as  it  seemed,  by  fluttering  coat-tails. 

'  Poor  chap  ! '  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  away,  after  receiving 
a  last  sweeping  salute  from  that  expressive  gloved  hand. 

He  felt  more  pity  for  Chalmers  than  he  had  felt  for  his 
mother  when  he  left  her  on  the  doorstep  that  morning  after  his 
constrained  farewell. 

When  he  reached  his  flat  he  found  a  letter  lying  on  his  table. 
He  picked  it  up  quickly  and  looked  at  the  direction.  It  was 
in  Mrs.  Ismey's  handwriting,  and  though  he  was  in  a  hurry  to 
see  what  the  letter  contained,  he  could  not  help  stopping  for  a 
minute  to  stare  at  the  address.  Why  did  she  write  like  that? 
If  writing  expresses  character,  surely  hers  must  be  strangely 


FELIX  269 

weak,  strangely  marred  in  some  way.  And  yet  that  was  not  the 
case.  Her  relations  with  Lady  Caroline  showed  determination, 
strength.  He  had  been  utterly  wrong  in  his  thought  of  the  two 
playing  women.  The  voice  which  had  whispered  within  him 
'  master — servant '  had  told  a  lie.  Lady  Caroline's  was  the  weak 
nature.  How  people  tricked  him  !  He  opened  the  letter,  which, 
like  the  address,  was  written  in  the  feeble,  half-illegible,  and 
straggling  hand,  now  beginning  to  be  familiar  to  him, 

'You  DEAR,  KIND  BOY, — How  Can  I  ever  thank  you?  Come 
to  see  me  at  once.  I  shall  be  in  to-day  at  five.  You  don't  know 
what  you  have  done  for  a  hard-up  being.  Now  if  you  don't 
come  to-day  I  shall  go  into  mauve. 

'Excuse  great  haste.  Love  and  thousands  of  gratitudes. — 
Yours,  V.  I. 

'P.S. — God  bless  you.     I  will  never  forget  your  generosity. 

V.' 

When  Felix,  with  some  difficulty,  had  made  out  the  meaning 
of  the  note,  he  caught  up  his  hat  and,  in  a  moment,  was  on  his 
way  to  Green  Street  in  a  hansom.  As  he  was  driving  down  the 
street  he  met  a  brougham  with  some  luggage  on  the  top  going 
towards  Park  Lane.  The  face  of  a  man  appeared  at  the 
brougham  window,  lit  up  for  a  moment  by  the  ray  of  a  lamp. 
Felix  thought  it  looked  like  Mr.  Ismey's  face,  but  he  was  not 
quite  sure.  He  reached  the  house  and  rang  the  bell.  The 
man-servant  evidently  expected  him,  and  showed  him  up  at 
once  without  waiting  to  be  asked  if  Mrs.  Ismey  was  at  home. 
The  drawing-room  was  empty. 

'  I  will  tell  Mrs.  Ismey  you  are  here,  sir,'  he  said,  going  out. 

Felix  waited  for  some  time.  He  walked  about  the  pretty 
room,  glancing  at  the  pictures,  the  ornaments,  the  books.  There 
were  many  of  the  latter  lying  about.  All  of  them  were  modern 
books,  just  published.  He  read  the  titles  of  some,  and  even 
glanced  into  them.  But  he  was  restless  with  anticipation,  and 
he  wondered  how  people  can  sit  down  with  the  noise  of  London 
in  their  ears,  their  minds  full  of  the  thoughts,  the  myriad 
thoughts  that  come  out  of  their  hiding-places  in  great  cities,  to 
plunge  into  the  minds,  the  thoughts  of  others. 

When  Mrs.  Ismey  came  into  the  room  at  last  she  came  in 
quickly,  with  an  expression  of  contrition  on  her  face. 

'Forgive  me,'  she  said.  'You  are  so  late  that  I  thought  you 
were  not  coming,  and  had  gone  up  to  put  on  mauve.     You  see 


270  FELIX 

I  am  wearing  it  still.     I  did  not  dare  to  keep  you  waiting  while 
I  changed.' 

She  was,  in  fact,  wearing  a  mauve  tea-gown,  which  Felix 
thought  quite  lovely,  and  she,  too,  looked  prettier  than  he  had 
ever  seen  her  look  before.  There  was  a  delicious  colour  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  beautiful,  live  hair  seemed  shot  with  the  hues  of 
light.  Her  eyes  were  shining  with  vivacity,  and  had,  he  fancied, 
something  of  a  child's  eagerness  caught  in  them.  And  her 
hands — well,  her  hands  were  exquisite  to-day.  As  he  took 
one  shyly  in  his  he  longed  to  kiss  it. 

*  Why  are  you  so  late  ? '  she  asked,  sitting  down  on  a 
sofa. 

She  touched  the  sofa  and  smiled  at  him,  screwing  up  her  eyes. 
He  sat  down  beside  her. 

*  I  was  working  hard.* 
'Oh,  working !' 

Her  voice  sounded  half  mischievous,  half  vexed. 

'You  men  have  so  many  things  that  interest  you,'  she 
continued.  '  I  believe  if  I  were  to  die  you  would  go  down  to 
that  school  of  yours  on  the  day  of  my  funeral.' 

'  I  cannot  imagine  you  dying,'  Felix  answered. 

'Can  you  imagine  me  going  to  Paris?' 

*To  Paris?'  he  exclaimed.     'Are  you  going  away?* 

'Would  you  mind  if  I  did?' 

To-day  she  had  returned  to  the  light,  drawling,  half-mis- 
chievous banter  which  had  mystified  him  on  the  evening  when 
he  first  met  her.    It  made  him  feel  his  youth  now  as  it  had  then. 

'  Oh,  you  know  I  have  my  work.  You  have  just  said  so,'  he 
answered. 

'  Don't  fight  me  with  my  own  weapons,'  she  said. 

Her  manner  was  as  radiant  as  her  appearance.  There  was 
a  strong  flush  in  her  cheeks  now,  and  her  odd,  hazel  eyes 
sparkled  with  an  almost  fierce  vivacity. 

*I  thought  I  met  your  husband  just  now,'  Felix  said. 

'Probably  you  did.    He  was  starting  for  the  station.* 

'Then  he  is  going  away  too?' 

'  Yes,  for  some  time.  He  goes  to  Berlin  first — some  conference 
— then  to  Rome.  Business  of  course.  I  should  feel  horribly 
lonely  here  without  him,  and  so — yes — I  am  going  to  Paris, 
with  Carrie — to  get  gowns  for  the  winter.' 

The  last  words  tantalised  Felix.  He  knew  they  were  meant 
to  tantahse  him.  She  was  not  going  to  Paris  only  to  get  gowns. 
She  had  some  other  project  which  excited  and  pleased  her,  some 
secret  project.     And  it  was  that  which  had  set  the  flush  on  her 


FELIX  271 

cheeks  and  filled  her  eyes  with  dancing  fire.     Her  heart  was 
certainly  glowing  with  anticipation. 

'You  always  play  with  me,'  he  said. 

He  scarcely  knew  why,  but  suddenly  he  felt  miserable,  alone, 
and  ridiculous,  as  if  he  were  so  young  or  so  stupid  that  nobody 
could  think  of  sharing  anything  with  him,  either  a  pleasure  or 
a  pain. 

'  You  treat  me  as  if  I  were  still  a  schoolboy.' 

He  let  his  voice  be  angry. 

'I!' 

*  Yes,  you.     It  isn't  fair.' 

Even  as  he  said  the  words  he  thought  how  like  an  angry 
schoolboy's  they  sounded,  and  was  furious  with  himself. 

'You  forget  that  I'm  nearly  twenty-one,'  he  exclaimed, 
speaking  to  get  away  from  that  last  sentence  of  his  and  to  blot 
it  out  from  her  memory.  '  I  may  be  young,  but  I  'm  not  a  boy, 
and  I  don't  see  why  you  should  always  treat  me  as  if  I  were  one.' 

With  every  word  he  spoke  the  sense  of  wrong  grew  stronger 
within  him. 

'  I  hate  it ! '  he  exclaimed. 

Her  face  had  quite  changed.  The  radiance  went  out  of  it, 
but  not  the  air  of  keen  life.  In  her  eyes  the  sparkle  of  joy  was 
replaced  by  a  sparkle  of- — was  it  tenderness? 

'You  are  wrong,'  she  said,  quite  gravely.  *  I  have  treated  you 
as  a  man.' 

'When?' 

'One  doesn't  borrow  money  of  a  schoolboy,  or  trust  him  with 
the  sad  secret  of  a  friend.     You  are  treating  me  unjustly.' 

Felix  said  nothing.  His  wound  still  hurt,  despite  the  salve 
she  had  just  applied  to  it. 

'You  ought  to  see  that.' 

'  Perhaps.' 

He  spoke  reluctantly. 

'I  believe  you  are  angry  with  me  just  because  I  am  happy 
to-day,'  she  said  abruptly. 

As  she  spoke  he  knew  that  she  spoke  the  exact  tiuih.  It  was 
something  in  her  evident  joy  which  had  vexed  him,  because  it 
seemed  to  remove  her  from  him,  to  carry  her  away  into  a  region 
beyond  his  reach. 

'No,  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  of  course,'  he  said  grimly. 

•Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  am  happy?'  she  asked. 

She  leant  a  little  towards  him  quickly,  almost  like  a  child 
does  when  it  is  in  such  delight  that  it  longs  to  seize  hold  of 
the  nearest  person,  to  have  the  human  contact  which  gives  such 


272  FELIX 

vital  evidence  of  the  human  power  to  double  joy  by  sharing  it. 
And,  when  she  said  that,  he  was  suddenly  happier. 

'But  I  know,'  he  answered,  still  keeping  his  hard  manner,  yet 
all  ready  to  melt.  'It  is  because  you  are  going  to  Paris — to 
buy  new  dresses.' 

'  It  is  because  I  am  going  to  Paris.' 

'I  say  I  know  it  is.' 

*I  shall  buy  new  gowns  there,  of  course.  A  woman  who  goes 
to  Paris  and  comes  away  without  having  bought  new  gowns  is 
not  a  woman  but  a  monster.  But  it  is  not  that  which  makes 
me  so  happy.     No,  no,  it  isn't  that.' 

All  her  extraordinary  vivacity  had  come  back.  The  fire  of 
joy  blazed  up  again  in  her  fiercely. 

'What  is  it?'  he  asked. 

The  fierceness  of  her  joy  waked  in  him  a  fierceness  of  curiosity 
to  know  why  it  came. 

'  I  am  going  with  Carrie.     I  am  going  to  cure  Carrie.' 

*0f— of ?' 

'This  morphia  habit  which  is  killing  her.  There  is  a  man  in 
Paris.  I  heard  his  name  some  time  ago,  but  when  my  husband 
is  in  London  I  am  not  free.  He  hates  Carrie  so  much  that  he 
would  be  furious  if  he  thought  I  was  travelling  anywhere  with 
her.' 

'But  Lady  Caroline  comes  here  and  you  go  to  her?' 

*Yes.  He  allows  that.  He  has  to.  But  he  would  never  let 
me  travel  with  her.' 

'  But  how  strange  ! '  Felix  said. 

He  spoke  with  conviction,  and  had  the  sensation  of  walking 
in  darkness,  conscious  of  a  maze  of  subtle  motives,  whose 
threads  he  was  unable  to  trace  either  to  the  centre  from  which 
they  sprang,  or  to  the  verge  towards  which  they  radiated. 

'You  think  so?  He  met  me  first  when  I  was  travelling  with 
her.' 

'  Well,  but — but  he  loves  you.' 

In  her  last  words  he  had  altogether  failed  to  find  the  reason 
he  sought.  He  showed  that  he  had  bluntly.  She  only  smiled, 
but  in  the  smile  there  was  a  sadness  which  made  him  wonder 
whether  there  was  not  some  tragedy  in  this  pretty  house  whose 
nature  he  had  never  even  dimly  suspected. 

'  I  am  stu!)id,'  he  exclaimed.     '  You  must  think  me  stupid.' 

*No,  but  I  think  women  often  expect  in  men  the  sort  of 
cleverness  which  men  never  possess.  I  have  to  deceive  Francis. 
He  will  not  know  I  have  been  to  Paris  with  Carrie.  Do  you 
think  it's  wrong?* 


FELIX  273 

She  was  speaking  eagerly  again,  with  an  intense  eagerness 
which  was  Hke  heat  puffing  into  the  room. 

'  I  don't  know,'  FeUx  said.  '  It 's  rather  dreadful  having  to 
tell  lies  to  anybody  one  cares  for,  I  think.' 

She  looked  anxious,  keenly  anxious.  Every  expression,  every 
movement,  every  word  of  hers  this  evening  had  an  edge  to  it, 
sharp  like  the  edge  of  a  well-tempered  dagger. 

'Yes,  isn't  it?  I  hate  it  so.  If  I  tell  a  lie  I  feel  at  once  as 
if  I  had  dwindled  down  into  something  dwarfish  and  deformed. 
But,  think,  this  is  for  Carrie,  for  my  oldest  friend,  to  save  her 
really  from  ruin.  I  can't  tell  you  everything.  It  would  take 
too  long,  and  besides  I  don't  think  I  ought.  It 's  too  terrible. 
When  morphia  once  gets  hold  of  any  one ' 

She  stopped,  with  a  sort  of  catch  in  her  voice. 

*No,  I  can't  go  into  it.  But  if  something  isn't  done,  Carrie 
is  doomed.  Now  if  anything  I  can  do  can  save  her,  oughtn't 
I  to  do  it?' 

Felix  had  quite  lost  his  pained  sense  of  being  a  boy  now  that 
he  was  being  consulted  as  a  man. 

*I  suppose  you  ought,'  he  answered. 

'Even  if  to  do  it  I  have  to  deceive  my  husband  and  risk 
my  own  happiness.  For  if  Francis  ever  found  out — but  don't 
let  us  think  of  that!' 

A  sort  of  shudder  ran  through  her  body.  The  vivacity  of 
all  her  emotions  was  so  great  that  there  was  something  almost 
melodramatic  in  her  manner.  And  this  seemed  to  grow  as  she 
talked,  as  if  talking  increased  her  powers  of  sensation  and  filled 
her  with  a  sort  of  light,  heady  intoxication. 

'I  think  there  are  moments  in  one's  life  when  one  ought  to 
shut  one's  eyes  to  possible  consequences  and  go  blindly  forward,' 
she  went  on.     'Blindly,  blindly.' 

She  shut  her  eyes,  as  if  to  revel  in  the  luxury  of  darkness 
and  of  movement  in  it. 

'  That 's  what  I  mean  to  do  now.  I  '11  shut  my  eyes  and  save 
Carrie.' 

'  But  don't  you  ever  think  of  yourself?'  Felix  said,  wondering. 

It  struck  him  as  intensely  strange  that  he  should  come  upon 
a  virtue  of  his  mother  in  Mrs.  Ismey.  They  were  so  unlike 
that  it  seemed  almost  impossible  that  they  could  touch  at  any 
point. 

'What  woman  does  when  she  really  cares?'  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 
'And  I  do  really  care  for  Carrie.' 

With  an  abruptness  that  was  fearful  to  Felix  she  burst  into 
tears.  The  change  from  joy  to  grief  startled  him  so  much  that, 
S 


274  FELIX 

for  a  moment,  he  sat  quite  still  listening  to  her  sobbing.  She 
turned  her  head  away  from  him,  took  out  her  handkerchief,  and 
held  it  pressed  against  her  face  just  under  her  eyes.  Her  body 
trembled  convulsively. 

*  Don't,' Felix  said.     'Don't!' 

It  was  all  he  could  say.  Very  shyly  he  moved  nearer  to  her 
on  the  sofa,  held  out  his  hand  to  touch  her,  then  drew  it  back. 

'What  is  the  matter?  Why  do  you  cry?  Can't  I  do  any- 
thing?' 

For  the  first  time  she  pressed  the  handkerchief  actually  against 
her  eyes. 

*  No,  no,  it 's  all  right.     I  'm  foolish,' 

She  turned  towards  him  again.  Her  face  was  still  slightly 
distorted  by  the  spasm  of  grief,  but  already  she  had  begun  to 
smile,  though  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

'  All  this  worry  about  Carrie  has  wrecked  my  nerves,'  she  said. 
'That  is  the  truth.  I  am  going  to  Paris  as  much  for  my  sake 
as  hers,  so  I  am  not  unselfish.' 

'  I  think  you  are,  very.' 

'  No,  no,  I  'm  not.  How  foolish  you  must  think  me,  crying 
like  that  for  nothing  at  all.     And  I  had  just  been  so  happy.' 

'Yes.' 

He  could  not  find  anything  to  say.  He  was  feeling  too  much 
and  too  confusedly. 

'It  just  occurred  to  me  how  awful  it  would  be  if  this  man 
couldn't  do  Carrie  any  good.     He  's  a  hypnotist.' 

'A  hypnotist?  ' 

'Yes.  If  she  can  give  up  her  will  to  his  it  may  all  come  right. 
His  charges  are  awful,  but  to  cure  her  would  be  worth  any 
money.' 

Felix  suddenly  realised  why  Mrs.  Ismey  had  asked  him  for 
that  cheque.  It  must  be  to  pay  this  man;  doctor,  hypnotist, 
whatever  he  was.  Mr.  Ismey  must  have  decided  rather  suddenly 
on  his  journey  abroad,  leaving  the  way  to  Paris  open  for  the 
two  friends.  The  moment  had  to  be  seized  and,  for  some 
reason,  Lady  Caroline  could  not  lay  her  hand  on  this  large  fee 
just  at  the  instant  when  she  wanted  it.  He  began  to  see  more 
clearly  into  some  things  which  had  puzzled  him. 

'  When  do  you  go  ?  '  he  asked. 

*On  Wednesday.' 

'And  shall  you  stay  long?' 

'  No,  only  till  Saturday  I  think.  I  must  be  back.  Francis 
will  expect  letters  from  me,  and  I  can't  post  them  in  Paris, 
and  I  don't  care  to  send  them  under  cover  to  be  posted  in 


FELIX  275 

England.  Oh,  it 's  horrid,  isn't  it,  to  be  deceitful,  however  good 
the  cause? ' 

Just  before  she  said  that  Felix  had  been  thinking  that  it  was 
horrid.  Mr.  Ismey's  face  had  come  to  him,  with  its  dignified 
expression  and  its  sad,  almost  bitter,  eyes.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  very  'straight'  man,  he  thought. 

'  Sometimes  I  think  I  '11  give  it  all  up,  and  give  Carrie  up 
too,'  she  exclaimed,  watching  him.  'She  doesn't  really  want 
to  be  cured.     She  loves  it  too  much  for  that.' 

'What  is  there  to  love  in  it?'  asked  Felix. 

Curiosity  about  this  strange  morphia  fascination  was  beginning 
to  dawn  in  him. 

'  Why  ! '  she  began  eagerly,  leaning  towards  him  while  her 
face  lit  up  as  it  had  not  lit  up  since   she  burst    into  tears. 

'Every '    She  checked  herself  sharply.    'Well,  according  to 

her,  it  must  be  an  exquisite  sensation.  She  has  told  me  all 
about  it.  I'm  quite  learned  on  the  subject.  It's  rather 
curious,  isn't  it,  being  steeped  in  knowledge  of  a  thing  you 
simply  loathe  and  have  a  horror  of?  She  will  talk  about  it 
incessantly.  That's  one  of  the  symptoms  of  her  kind  of  case, 
I  believe.' 

Felix  thought  of  Lady  Caroline,  as  he  had  seen  her  and 
known  her.  It  was  strange  to  hear  her  spoken  of  as  a  'case.' 
He  still  felt  a  reluctance  to  learn  her  secret,  combined  with  a 
desire  to  know  it  in  all  its  fulness.  The  two  sensations  were  at 
war,  and  now  one  made  a  bid  for  victory. 

'Perhaps — I  say,  d'you  think  I  ought  to  hear  all  this?'  he 
said.  '  You  know  if  I  could  do  any  good  it  would  be  all  right. 
But  could  I?' 

'I've  thought  of  it  all,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said,  with  unusual  deter- 
mination. 'Perhaps  it's  selfish  and  weak  of  me,  but  I  do  care 
for  your  good  opinion.' 

'Mine?'  he  said,  moving  a  little  nearer  to  her.  'But,  you 
know ' 

'I  know  very  well  I  might  lose  it,  as  things  are,  unless  I  told 
you  the  truth.  When  one  is  acting  f(.r  any  one  in  Carrie's 
condition,  trying  to  save  her,  one  gets  mixed  up  in  all  sorts  of 
things,  and  with  ail  sorts  of  dread I'ul  people.  If  I  am  perfectly 
sincere  with  you,  I  feel  that  you  at  least  can  never  mistake  my 
motives.' 

'But,  then,  why  not  tell  your  husband?'  said  Felix. 

He  said  it  moved  by  the  desire  we  sometimes  have  to  lay  a 
whip  across  our  shoulders  instead  of  the  soft  shawl  they  crave 
for. 


276  FELIX 

'Why !'  Mrs.  Ismey  exclaimed,  almost  with  a  touch  of  irrita- 
bility. '  Because  I  will  never  give  Carrie  away  to  any  one  who 
hates  her.     Surely  you  can  understand  that.' 

She  had  spoken  almost  sharply,  and  apparently  recognised 
that  she  had,  for  she  added  : 

'She  likes  you,  and  you  have  told  me  you  like  her.' 

*  I  think  I  do,'  Felix  said.     '  In  a  way.     But ' 

'Yes,  you  will  say.  Is  that  a  reason  for  my  being  so  frank 
with  you  ?  Perhaps  it  isn't.  Perhaps  nothing  would  be  a 
sufficient  reason.  Well,  listen  to  the  honest  truth.  I  couldn't 
go  on  any  more  without  telling  some  one.  I  couldn't  tell  my 
husband.  I  couldn't  tell  a  woman,  for  I  wouldn't  trust  any 
woman  on  earth  with  a  secret.* 

'Why  not?' 

'  Because  I  wouldn't.  So  I  told  you.  And  now,  I  believe, 
you  despise  me  for ' 

Her  eyes  were  again  full  of  tears.  Seeing  them,  Felix's  last 
scruple  was  swept  away. 

'I  could  never  despise  you,'  he  said  quickly.  'I,  despise 
you !  How  can  you  say  such  things  ?  You  make  me 
ashamed.' 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  way  that  seemed  almost  to  startle  her, 
and  they  were  both  silent  for  a  moment.  During  that  moment 
the  spirit  of  youth,  of  joy,  dawned  in  her  again.  Despite  her 
strange  passion  of  tears,  her  nervous  irritability,  happiness  was 
certainly  hovering  about  her  Jieart  to-day. 

'Don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more,'  she  said.  'Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  tell  any  one.  You  have  more  sense  of  honour  than 
I.  But  then  you  are  a  man.  Don't  think  ill  of  me.  Perhaps 
this  Paris  trip  will  put  everything  right.  If  it  does  I  will  never 
speak  about  this  craze  of  Carrie's  again.  It  will  be  cured,  and 
we  will  forget  it.  But  one  thing  I  shall  never  forget,  your 
darling  kindness  and  goodness  to  me.' 

Felix  blushed. 

'Oh,  that's  nothing,'  he  said  hurriedly.     'Please  don't.' 

'But  it  is  a  great  deal.  You  got  my  telegram.  I  wired 
directly  I  could.' 

'Yes.     It  was  good  of  you.     But,  I  say * 

'Well?     What  is  it?' 

'You  know  you  forgot  to  put  my  name  in  the  address.* 

She  looked  astonished. 

'I  didn't.  Why,  if  I  had  you  could  never  have  got  the 
telegram.' 

'  My  Christian  name,  I  mean.' 


FFTJX  277 

*Did   I?     But '     She   looked   at   him.      'Your  mother 

opened  it ! ' 
'Yes.' 
'What  did  she  say?* 

*  Nothing — then.' 
*But  afterwards?' 

'  Very  Httle.     I  dare  say  she  was  astonished.' 
He  was  looking  at  her  with  a  sort  of  nervous,  hot  question  in 
his  eyes. 

'You  see  you  telegraphed  so — so  kindly.' 

*  I  telegraphed  just  as  I  felt.  I  was  a  fool  to  be  so  truthful. 
D'you  know,  Felix,  I  sometimes  think  that  a  woman  who  tells 
the  truth  is  fit  only  for  a  madhouse.  It 's  all  very  well  for  men. 
People  expect  truth  from  men.  From  women  they  don't. 
And  if  you  give  people  what  they  don't  expect  from  you  they 
nearly  always  hate  you.' 

She  had  called  him  Felix.  His  mind  was  more  fixed  on  that 
word  than  on  the  rest  of  her  sentence.  Yet  she  had  spoken  his 
name  so  lightly,  with  such  a  careless  sort  of  familiarity,  that  he 
was  not  sure  whether  she  even  knew  that  she  had  spoken  it. 
If  she  had  said  it  unconsciously  perhaps  the  tribute  was  the 
greater,  the  sense  of  familiarity  shown  more  deep,  worth  more 
to  him.  He  had  no  time  to  wonder,  for  just  then  the  drawing- 
room  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Ismey's  maid,  Alice,  came  in. 

She  wore  a  black  felt  hat  and  a  black  jacket.  When  she  saw 
Felix  in  the  room  she  stopped  by  the  door,  and  said : 

'  I  beg  pardon,  ma'am.     I  thought  you  were  alone.' 

•Never  mind,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey.     'Mr.  Wilding  will  forgive  you.' 

She  glanced  at  Felix. 

'Of  course  !'  he  said. 

He  looked  at  Alice  as  she  came  forward  very  quietly  and 
gave  a  note  to  her  mistress.  The  maid  interested  him.  There 
was  something  striking  in  her  personality.  Even  her  softness 
and  silence  made  a  strong  impression.    Mrs.  Ismey  took  the  note. 

'  Wait  a  minute  while  I  read  it,  Alice,'  she  said.  '  You  '11 
let  me,  won't  you  ?' 

She  looked  at  Felix. 

'Oh,  please  read  it,'  he  said. 

She  tore  it  open.  Alice  stood  waiting  with  her  hands  folded. 
She  gazed  at  the  carpet.  Felix  wondered  very  much  what  she 
was  thinking  about.  It  struck  him  afterwards  that  he  had 
seldom  wondered  what  a  servant  was  thinking  about  before. 
When  Mrs.  Ismey  had  finished  the  note  she  looked  radiant 

'We  are  going  to-morrow  ! '  she  said. 


278  FELIX 

'To '  Felix  began. 

He  stopped  abruptly.  Perhaps  Alice  did  not  know  about 
the  Paris  trip. 

'  Paris — yes,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey.  '  D'  you  hear,  Alice,  to- 
morrow morning  by  the  ten  train.     You  haven't  much  time.' 

'  I  can  manage  easily,  ma'am.' 

'  Very  well.     That  will  do.' 

The  maid  seemed  to  Felix  to  hesitate  for  a  moment.  She 
stole  a  glance  at  him,  and  an  odd  idea  came  into  his  mind  that 
she  wanted  to  say  something  to  him.  Then  she  went  out  of  the 
room  rather  slowly. 

'  I  ought  to  go,'  he  said.     '  You  must  have  a  lot  to  do.* 

♦  Yes.' 

She  had  got  up,  and  as  he  came  to  her  to  say  good-bye  the 
intense  brilliancy  of  her  appearance,  caused  by  the  animation 
in  her  eyes  chiefly,  but  also  by  the  suggestion  of  readiness  for 
activity  in  her  pose,  made  an  impression  on  him  that  was 
startling. 

'  You  are  happy  ! '  he  said. 

*  Yes,'  she  answered,  giving  him  her  beautiful  hand.  '  Happy, 
happy !  Paris  seems  to  me  to-night  to  be  the  promised  city, 
as  Palestine  was  the  promised  land.  It 's  absurd,  isn't  it?  But 
you — you  know  the  reason.' 

The  pressure  of  her  hand  seemed  to  sting  him. 

'Come  back  on  Saturday,'  he  said. 

Suddenly  he  saw  London  an  empty  city,  with  streets  full 
of  hollow  echoes,  deserted  houses,  sad  squares  like  roofless 
sepulchres. 

'  Do  come  back  then.' 

She  only  smiled,  but  there  were  light  and  fire  in  the  smile. 
As  Felix  came  out  of  the  room,  and  was  just  going  to  descend 
the  stairs,  he  saw  the  black  figure  of  Alice.  She  was  on  the 
landing  above  him,  and  was  looking  over.  He  thought  she  was 
there  for  him.  But  how  could  that  possibly  be?  Almost  at 
once  Mrs.  Ismey  followed  him  out  of  the  drawing-room.  Alice 
disappeared  silently. 

'Thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you  ! '  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

She  took  his  hand  again,  pressed  it  almost  feverishly,  and 
began  to  go  quickly  upstairs  as  Felix  went  down.  When  he 
was  in  the  hall  he  heard  her  voice  call : 

'  Good-bye !' 

He  looked  up  and  saw  her  head.  It  was  thrust  forward  over 
the  banisters.  She  made  her  odd,  animal  face  at  him  and 
vanished. 


CHAPTER     XXII 

LADY  CAROLINE  did  not  forget  that  she  had  invited 
Felix  for  Tuesday.  She  wrote  him  a  blunt  little  note 
saying  that  she  was  '  off  to  Paris,'  and  that  she  was  sure  he 
wouldn't  break  his  heart  over  the  disappointment.  'Besides, 
who  knows  whether  you  meant  to  come?'  she  concluded 
abruptly.  One  thing  in  the  note  surprised  Felix.  She  said, 
'I  expect  we  shall  be  away  for  a  fortnight.'  Evidently,  then, 
Mrs.  Ismey  had  not  yet  told  her  friend  that  she  was  obliged  to 
come  back  on  the  Saturday.  When  Felix  had  finished  reading 
the  note  he  laid  it  beside  one  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  and  examined  the 
two  calligraphies  with  a  profound  interest.  They  brought  again 
to  his  mind  the  canon  played  on  the  two  pianos.  Lady  Caro- 
line's handwriting  was  large  and  bold.  It  sloped  slightly 
upwards.  Each  word  was  perfectly  clear  and  looked  manly. 
There  was  not  a  blot  or  smudge  on  the  envelope.  How 
strangely  deceiving  are  the  very  thingg  by  which  people  are 
inclined  to  judge  character.  Felix  stared  at  the  strong  hand- 
writing, and  knew  it  was  formed  by  the  hand  of  a  woman  in  the 
core  of  whose  nature  lurked  a  fatal  weakness ;  at  the  feeble, 
straggling,  blotted  letters,  and  knew  they  were  set  down  on  that 
smudged  and  crumpled  paper  by  a  woman  of  strength  and  eager 
purpose,  full  of  the  desire  to  save,  full  of  the  bravery  of  self- 
sacrifice.  These  things,  which  men  call  signs,  symptoms  of  the 
condition  of  a  character,  the  state  of  a  soul,  are  then  merely 
lies?  They  are  not  only  inexpressive  of  truth,  but  are  actually 
expressive,  apparently,  of  truth's  opposite. 

He  put  the  two  notes  away  in  a  drawer.  And  again  he  was 
assailed  by  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the  confusion  of  life. 

That  week,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  in  London,  he 

wrote  to  the  tailor.     The  letter  was  a  long  one,  and  very  frank 

as  a  self-revelation.     Felix  indeed  treated  tl;e  tailor  rather  as 

over-burdened  hearts   often   treat  the  void,   confessed  to  him 

comfortably  through  the  grille  of  space.     This  little  old  man  of 

a  different  nation,  companion  of  the  trees,  the  plants,  the  sylvan 

voices  of  France,  unseen  and  far  away  in  his  quiet  hermitage, 

27y 


280  FELIX 

had  given  an  impulse  to  the  English  youth,  was  now  the  con- 
fidant of  the  results  proceeding  from  that  fierce  gift.  The 
letter  was  vigorous  and  sad,  for,  in  the  writing,  a  curious 
enthusiasm  took  possession  of  Felix,  mysterious  to  him  and 
edged  with  the  gloom  of  city  shadows.  Trying  to  set  down 
London  on  paper  woke  up  his  mind  to  a  knowledge  of  what 
London's  impression  upon  him  had  been.  There  was — he  knew 
it  as  he  wrote — a  great  melancholy  in  its  excitement,  like  the 
murmur  in  the  heart  of  a  sunlit  sea.  But  there  was  a  joy  in  it, 
too,  not  to  be  found  elsewhere,  the  joy  that  men  find  in  every- 
thing that  interests  them  deeply,  that  demands  investigation  and 
whispers,  '  I  have  my  secret.' 

It  was  far  easier  for  Felix  to  write  to  the  tailor  than  to  his 
mother.     He  did  not  pause  to  wonder  why. 

He  anticipated  the  arrival  of  Saturday  with  eagerness.  Already 
he  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  companionship  of  Mrs. 
Ismey,  that  her  absence  from  London  made  a  startling  difference 
in  his  life.  He  realised  this  thoroughly  the  very  day  she  went. 
Although  he  did  not  see  her  go,  her  face  at  the  window  of  the 
gliding  train,  he  knew  she  had  gone  as  if  all  London  told  him. 
There  was  a  difference,  an  emptiness.  The  edge  of  things  was 
blunted  for  him,  and  he  felt  dull,  and  much  stupider  than 
usual,  as  if  his  intellect  depended  upon  her  and  was  hobbling, 
deprived  of  a  necessary  support.  He  was  angry  with  himself 
for  feeling  this,  but  as  the  days  went  by  the  sensation  increased. 
Each  morning,  when  he  came  into  his  little  room  for  breakfast, 
he  looked  anxiously  for  a  letter  from  Paris,  and  when  he  did  not 
find  one  was  painfully  disappointed,  painfully  disinclined  to  face 
the  incidents  of  the  day.  Friday  came  and  he  had  had  no  letter. 
Evidently  she  would  not  write  at  all.  On  Sunday  he  would  see 
her  and  reproach  her.  Yes,  he  would  certainly  reproach  her. 
After  all  that  had  occurred — her  revelation  of  the  reason  for  this 
Paris  expedition,  the  money  transaction,  the  incident  of  the 
telegram — she  might  have  written  to  him  once.  She  owed  him 
at  least  a  word,  and  her  silence  was  cruel.  Sometimes  he  made 
excuses  for  her.  He  told  himself  that  she  had  been  too  much 
occupied  with  the  bitter  problem  of  Lady  Caroline's  rescue  to 
spare  a  moment  to  him.  But  he  always  returned  to  his  indigna- 
tion.    She  might  have  written  if  she  had  cared  to. 

On  Saturday  he  found  upon  the  breakfast-table  a  big  envelope 
sealed,  and  directed  to  him  in  Mrs.  Israey's  illegible  and 
irregular  handwriting.  He  tore  it  open  eagerly.  A  second 
envelope  fell  out.  It  was  un.>'aniped,  and  was  directed  to  Mr. 
Ismey  at  an  address  in  Rome.     Felix  looked  at  it  in  astonish- 


FELIX  281 

ment.  Why  should  she  send  it  to  him?  Was  it  a  mistake? 
He  thrust  his  hand  into  the  first  envelope,  pulled  out  some 
sheets  of  thin  foreign  paper,  and  bigan  to  read  them.  But  the 
business  was  a  difficult  one.  Mis.  Ismey  had  apparently 
written  with  a  quill  pen,  and  in  a  tremendous  hurry.  Tiie  letter 
was  an  illegible,  blotted  scrawl,  almost  impossible  to  decipher. 
Even  after  he  had  pored  over  it  for  half  an  hour  there  were 
words,  even  sentences,  that  Felix  could  not  make  out.  It  was 
written,  too,  all  over  the  place.  There  were  scraps  in  the 
corners  of  one  sheet  which  required  other  scraps  to  make  them 
intelligible.  But  these  other  scraj's,  ends  of  sentences  only 
begun,  Felix  could  not  always  find.  He  had  never  before  seen 
a  letter  that  was  such  a  chaos.  The  ink  had  soaked  through  the 
flimsy  paper  so  that  the  words  of  one  side  of  a  sheet  were,  as  it 
seemed,  reflected  mistily  among  the  words  of  the  sheet's  other 
side.  The  attempt  to  make  the  chaos  coherent  was  a  madden- 
ing task.  Only  his  intense  eagerness  to  be  in  communication 
with  Mrs.  Ismey,  to  know  everything  she  had  in  Paris  wished 
him  to  know  in  London,  induced  him  to  persevere  in  the  effort 
to  comprehend.  When  he  had  at  length  come  at  the  greater 
part  of  her  meaning,  bitter  disappointment  overwhelmed  him. 
She  was  not  coming  back  that  day.  On  Sunday  she  would  not 
be  in  Green  Street.  Lady  Caroline  had  been  right.  They  were 
to  spend  a  fortnight  in  Paris.  Mrs.  Ismey  gave  a  strong  reason 
for  this  change  of  plan,  and  also  for  a  task,  horribly  repugnant  to 
him,  which  she  confided  to  Felix  with  a  string  of  apologies  and 
regrets.  The  cure  of  Lady  Caroline,  she  wrote,  was  trembling 
in  the  balance  owing  to  her  friend's  disinclination  to  be  snatched 
from  the  grip  of  the  vice  she  loved.  It  was  a  battle  between  the 
will  of  the  doctor  and  the  will  of  the  patient.  Lady  Caroline 
had  been  so  far  yielding  that  she  had  allowed  the  doctor  to  see 
what  he  could  do.  She  had  permitted  Mrs.  Ismey  to  put  her 
into  his  hands.  But  she  could  not  be  induced  to  make  a 
deliberate  effurt  to  submit  to  his  influence.  On  the  contrary 
she  resisted  it  violently  with  all  her  force.  Mrs.  Ismey  said 
that  she  could  not  write  an  account  of  all  that  was  going  on,  but 
Felix  would  understand  what  a  miserable  condition  of  anxiety 
she  was  in,  at  one  moment  on  the  verge  of  hope,  at  another 
inclined  to  despair.  Nothing  but  her  determination  to  save  her 
friend  from  utter  physical  and  mental  ruin  would  induce  her  to 
descend  to  the  subterfuge  which  was  necessary,  if  she  was  to 
remain  longer  in  Paris  and  give  Lady  Caroline  a  last  chance. 
And  then  came  the  request  before  which  Felix  felt  everything 
that  was  decent  in  him  flinching.     She  asked  him  to  stamp  the 


282  FELIX 

letter  to  her  husband,  which  she  enclosed,  and  to  post  it  for  her 
in  the  cU^trict  to  which  Green  Street  belonged.  She  ended  with 
messages  which  made  the  boy's  cheeks  burn,  assuring  him  that 
she  looked  upon  him  as  her  only  friend  and  protector,  that  she 
confided  utterly  in  him,  that  she  knew  how  he  would  hate  doing 
what  she  asked,  but  that  she  dared  to  ask  him  since  he  alone 
knew  the  reason  of  the  odious  deception  which  she  was  forced 
to  lend  herself  to  and  involve  him  in. 

*  I  know  how  you  will  loathe  doing  it,'  she  wrote,  '  but  just 
think  how  far  worse  it  is  for  me.  I  tell  a  lie  to  the  man  who 
believes  in  me.  My  whole  nature  revolts  from  doing  it.  And 
yet,  when  I  look  at  Carrie,  I  cannot  hesitate.  Nor  could  you  if 
you  were  here,  if  you  could  know,  could  see  all  that  is  going  on. 
Over  and  over  again  I  have  thought  of  throwing  it  all  up,  of 
coming  straight  back  to  London  and  cutting  myself  once  and 
for  ever  adrift  from  Carrie  and  all  the  horrors  of  her  life.  But 
then  something  steps  in,  something  stronger  than  I  am,  and 
prevents  me.  Call  it  love,  folly,  friendship,  what  you  like,  I 
can't  resist  it.  I  feel  that  I  could  ruin  myself  to  save  her. 
Don't  think  me  mad.  Pity  me.  Help  me.  Something  in  my 
heart  tells  me  that  you  will.  If  you  don't — well,  then  Carrie  is 
lost.  For  there  is  no  one  I  can  trust  but  you,  and  if  you  fail  me 
I  must  come  back.  And  if  I  leave  her  here  in  Paris,  which 
is  the  very  paradise  of  the  morphifiomanes,  she  will  simply  go 
under  for  ever.  You'll  say  that  I  might  bring  her  back.  Yes, 
but  uncured?     Vnx  \n  z.n  i?npasse.     Help  me  ! ' 

The  letter  was  almost  hysterical.  WhaX  could  be  going  on  in 
Paris  ?  Felix  felt  inclined  to  travel  there  that  day  and  bring 
Mrs.  Ismey  home.  He  hated  to  think  of  her  exposed  to  strange 
and  terrible  circumstances  such  as  she  hinted  at.  His  imagina- 
tion could  not  tell  him  what  they  were.  He  was  in  the  dark, 
but  the  mere  look  of  her  letter  now  seemed  to  make  him  realise 
at  least  something  of  the  confusion  and  misery  of  her  present 
existence.  Then  he  thought  of  Lady  Caroline.  What  a  traitor 
to  truth  her  appearance  was.  That  expression  of  power  was  a 
lie,  that  dominant  pose  a  lie,  that  autocratic  glance  a  lie.  Only 
the  weariness,  the  occasional  indifference  to  outward  things,  the 
moody  silences,  the  stony  gravities  of  her  told  something  of  the 
truth  of  her  body  and  of  her  soul.  A  slow  jealousy  of  her  began 
to  stir  in  him.  For  was  she  not  tearing  Mrs.  Ismey's  life  to 
pieces?  For  the  first  time  he  woke  to  a  consciousness  of  the 
many  Molochs  of  the  world,  those  who  demand  and  obtain 
human  sacrifices.  Lady  Caroline  was  one.  And  he  understood, 
or  began  to  understand,  the  terrible  fact,  which  can  also  be  so 


FELIX  283 

magnificent,  that  each  human  life  is  like  an  organ  set  in  a  body, 
and  affecting,  in  its  disease,  the  whole  body.  Just  then  the 
mysterious  and  ordained  dependence  of  the  human  being  upon 
the  human  beings  surrounding  it  shocked  and  almost  terrified 
him. 

He  looked  at  the  envelope  addressed  to  Mr.  Ismey  which 
was  lying  on  the  table.  Lady  Caroline's  disease,  spreading, 
eating  its  slow  way  through  invisible  tissues,  reached  that  man 
in  Rome  and  reached  him,  Felix,  sitting  in  his  little  room  in 
London.  He  took  up  the  letter  and  mechanically  weighed  it  in 
his  hand.  What  could  it  contain  ?  Lies.  That  was  certain 
and  inevitable.  If,  under  these  circumstances,  Mrs.  Ismey 
wrote  to  her  husband,  she  could  only  write  lies  to  him,  lies 
describing  her  supposed  life  in  London,  the  supposed  doings  of 
London  days.  It  was  too  degrading.  His  hand  felt  hot  with 
shame  as  it  held  the  letter.  And  was  he  to  put  the  necessary 
finishing  touch  to  the  low  plot  by  posting  it  ?  He  was  so 
young,  and  had  been  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  so  singularly 
truthful  that  such  an  act  revolted  him,  created  within  him  a 
species  of  nausea  of  the  soul.  The  white  refinement  of  his 
youth,  of  whose  cleanness  and  sensitive  delicacy  he  was  generally 
quite  unaware  and,  when  he  berame  faintly  aware  of  them — as, 
for  instance,  when  a  girl's  soft  voice  called  Nino,  and  guilt  shone 
in  his  face — was  unable  to  understand,  trembled  and  shrank 
away  from  the  little  and  very  simple  deed  that  was  required  of 
him  as  if  it  were  a  great  crime.  The  idea,  old-fashioned,  worthy 
of  his  mother  cradled  in  the  simplicity  of  country  life,  came  to 
him  that  he  had  eaten  Mr.  Ismcy's  bread  and  salt  and  was  now 
to  betray  him.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  could  not  do  it,  that 
he  would  not  do  it,  and  he  took  the  letter,  locked  it  up  in  a 
drawer,  and  sent  a  telegram  to  Paris : 

*  Do  not  ask  me  to  do  that  come  back  at  once  much  better 
Felix.' 

He  put  his  Christian  name  without  thought  that  he  was 
putting  it.  To  do  so  was  natural.  She  had  signed  her  blotted 
letter,  Valeria.  That  morning  he  spent  at  Sam's  school  in  a 
turmoil  of  excitement  which  he  only  controlled  with  difficulty. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  pupils  must  see  what  was  passing  in 
his  mind,  almost  as  if  they,  too,  must  be  involved  in  the 
circumstances  which  were  at  the  same  time  oppressing  and 
stinging  him.  The  gaiety  of  Arliss,  the  airy  and  satirical 
gravities  of  Harry  Cleave,  Singleton's  vague  worldliness,  even 
the  desperate  determination  of  Paul  Clialniers,  and  the  smiling 


284  FELIX 

calm  of  Sam  surprised  him  again  and  again.  Yet  why  should 
they  be  different  because  he  was?  He  rather  hated  them 
because  they  were  not. 

In  the  afternoon  he  left  early  and  hurried  home,  expecting 
to  find  a  telegram.  There  was  one  lying  on  his  table.  He 
tore  it  open. 

'  For  God's  sake  post  it  you  would  if  you  knew  all  post  it 
St  it  Valeria.' 

As  he  was  standing  with  the  thin  paper  in  his  hand  there  was 
a  knock  at  the  door,  and  his  man  came  in. 
'Another  telegram  for  you,  sir,'  he  said. 
'Thanks,'  said  Felix  quietly,  holding  out  his  hand  for  it. 

*  Post  it  my  dear  boy  if  you  have  the  faintest  friendship  for 
me  everything  depends  on  it  for  God's  sake  do  this  one  thing 
for  me  I  will  never  forget  it  love  Valeria.' 

There  was  something  very  vital  in  these  two  cries  from  Paris. 
As  Felix  looked  at  them  he  seemed  to  hear  Mrs.  Ismey's  voice 
uttering  them,  to  see  her  face  as  he  had  seen  it  in  the  cab  that 
night  before  she  told  him  to  look  away.  He  went  to  the 
drawer  in  which  he  had  locked  the  letter  to  Mr.  Ismey  and 
took  it  out  slowly.  He  meant  to  post  it  now.  He  knew  quite 
well  that  he  was  going  to  post  it.  But  when  he  saw  the  letter 
he  reddened,  standing  there  by  himself.  There  was  a  pricking 
in  his  skin.  He  was  thankful  no  one  was  in  the  room  to 
look  at  him.  And  then,  immediately,  he  was  profoundly 
thankful  for  something  else,  thankful  that  he  had  not  entered 
the  office  of  Ismey  and  Co.  If  he  had  he  could  never  surely 
have  posted  this  letter.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  Mrs.  Ismey 
had  foreseen  that  these  circumstances  were  going  to  arise  when 
she  asked  him  to  give  up  the  career  her  husband  had  offered 
him.  He  remembered  that  she  had  never  yet  told  him  why 
she  had  required  that  sacrifice  of  him.  Since  he  had  joined 
the  school,  seen  another  career  before  him,  felt  firm  ground 
beneath  his  feet,  he  had  bt  en  less  anxious  to  know  her  reason. 
New  interests  had  blotted  out  the  old  anxiety.  But  now  again 
he  longed  to  know.  Had  she — could  she  have  had — some 
intuition  of  the  turn  that  things  would  take  ? 

She  was  very  clever.  Once  she  had  advised  him  to  guard 
against  too  great  cleverness.  She  had  spoken  of  it  as  if  it  were 
an  evil  thing.  He  began  to  see  her  menning.  But  she,  if  she 
indeed  showed  a  shrewdness  that  seemed  perhaps  opposed  to 


FELIX  285 

honour,  was  after  all  exerting  herself  with  an  unselfish  aim  that 
made  for  nobility.  He  thought  of  that  moment  when  she  had 
shut  her  eyes,  and  spoken  of  going  forward  blindly,  regardless 
of  consequences.  Was  it  easier  for  a  woman  to  do  that  than 
for  a  man  ?  Perhaps.  As  he  went  out  to  post  the  letter  to  Mr. 
Ismey,  when  he  stood  before  the  box  in  Green  Street  and  posted 
it,  Felix  felt  that  he  too  had  shut  his  eyes  and  was  in  darkness, 
a  darkness  that  might  be  felt. 

That  evening  a  third  telegram  arrived  from  Paris  :  '  Have 
you  posted  it  Valeria.'  The  answer  was  paid.  Felix  wired 
back  :  '  Yes  Felix.' 

On  Monday  he  received  a  second  long  and  frightfully  illegible 
letter  from  Mrs.  Ismey,  imploring  his  forgiveness  for  having 
dared  to  ask  such  a  sacrifice  from  him,  and  thanking  him  again 
and  again  in  almost  frantic  terms  for  having  posted  the  letter. 
She  entered  at  length  into  the  moral  aspect  of  the  question,  and 
quite  amazed  Felix  by  the  accuracy  with  which,  in  Paris,  she 
had  divined  the  workings  of  his  mind  in  London.  Her  power 
of  thought-reading,  which  had  surprised  and,  while  it  confused 
him,  had  delighted  him  from  the  first  moment  of  his  acquaint- 
ance with  her,  did  not  desert  her  in  this  complicated  phase  of 
her  existence.  Indeed,  she  seemed  more  startlingly  intuitive 
now  than  ever  before,  as  if  her  troubles  whipped  up  her  intellect. 
He  replied  to  her  letter  at  length,  acknowledging  that  all  she 
had  thought  had  been  right,  and  urging  her  to  come  home 
While  he  wrote  the  slow  jealousy  of  Lady  Caroline,  which  he 
had  already  felt  but  dimly,  grew  in  his  heart  and  seemed  almost 
to  guide  his  pen.  Why  should  she  be  allowed  to  wreck  the  life 
of  another  for  the  gratification  of  a  hateful  passion  ?  It  was 
cruelly,  foully  unjust,  he  thought.  But  what  a  strong,  shining 
sense  of  friendship  and  its  duties  Mrs.  Ismey  must  have.  He 
saw  Lady  Caroline,  while  he  wrote,  black  ;  Mrs.  Ismey  white 
like  an  angel,  and  then  grey  like  an  angel  dragged  in  the  dirt. 
For  there  are  surely  acts  that  cannot  be  done  for  whatever 
cause  without  leaving  a  stain  upon  the  doer  of  them. 

The  reply  to  his  letter  was  another  enclosure  for  Mr.  Ismey 
in  Rome,  with  endless  excuses  and  apologies.  Felix  posted  it, 
as  he  had  posted  the  first.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  absurd, 
having  sinned  once,  to  refuse  to  repeat  his  sin.  Yet  he  rebelled 
even  more  violently  this  time  than  he  had  before,  so  violently, 
indeed,  that  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Ismey  refusing  to  be  the  medium 
of  any  more  deception.  The  letter  was  masterful  intone.  He 
had  never  dared  to  assume  such  autocracy  towards  her  in  their 
previous  relations.     But  now  he  was   driven    by  a  feeling  of 


286  FELIX 

shame  and  personal  degradation.  His  heart  was  hot  within 
him,  and  he  wrote  ere  the  kindled  fire  had  time  to  die  down. 
When  the  letter  had  gone  he  thought  it  over  and  was 
afraid.  Perhaps  she  would  never  speak  to  him  again.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  fool  to  be  governed  by  such  feelings.  He 
knew  he  had  a  tendency  towards  exaggeration.  Did  he 
exaggerate  now  ?  He  looked  mentally  at  Mr.  Ismey's  position, 
at  his  own,  at  the  intercourse  which  had  taken  place  between 
them,  the  kindnesses  which  now  jangled  about  him  like  chains. 
No,  he  had  not  exaggerated.  He  felt  that  if  he  had  to  write 
to  Mrs.  Ismey  again  now  he  would  write  the  same  letter.  His 
feelings  stood.  But  he  had  a  great  fear  that  she  would  hate 
him.  And  if  she  hated  him  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  world 
would  crumble  about  his  feet.  For  even  what  he  had  done  for 
her,  and  the  anger  he  felt  against  himself  for  having  done  it, 
seemed  to  draw  him  towards  her,  to  strengthen  the  strands  of 
their  friendship. 

She  did  not  answer  his  letter,  but  two  days  afterwards  she 
returned  from  Paris.  She  had  been  away  just  thirteen  days. 
Almost  directly  she  arrived  she  sent  a  brief  note  to  Felix 
asking  him  to  come  and  see  her.  When  he  read  it  and  knew 
that  she  was  in  Green  Street,  close  to  him,  that  he  had  only  to 
take  a  cab  and  he  would  be  actually  with  her  in  a  few  minutes, 
he  felt  almost  bewildered.  How  would  she  greet  him  ?  Her 
note  gave  no  indication  of  her  feelings  towards  him.  It  was 
signed  V.  I,  He  turned  it  over  in  his  hand,  threw  it  down,  and 
started  for  Green  Street. 

He  fancied  that  the  man-servant  who  let  him  in  looked  at 
him  curiously,  and  that  a  faint  smile  dawned  for  a  moment  on 
his  usually  well-governed  lips.  Did  he  know  of  all  that  had 
been  happening  ?  Of  course  not.  And  yet,  as  Felix  mounted 
the  stairs,  the  horrible  idea  came  to  him  for  the  first  time  that 
Mrs.  Ismey  was  to  a  certain  extent  in  the  power  of  this  man,  of 
all  her  servants.  There  was  not  one  in  her  household  who  did 
not  know  what  her  husband  was  not  to  know,  that  she  had  been 
absent  from  home  while  he  had  been  away.  How  abominable 
that  was. 

When  he  came  into  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Ismey  was  there, 
lying  down  on  a  sofa  in  a  shadowy  corner.  Only  one  electric 
light  was  burning  on  the  piano.  Felix  had  never  before  seen 
the  room  so  dark.  As  the  man-servant  went  out  he  came  up 
to  the  sofa  nervously.  She  remained  lying  down.  She  had  on 
a  red  dress.  He  supposed  it  was  a  tea-gown.  It  was  long  and 
flowing  and  did  not  define  the  figure,  and  he  thought  that  kind 


FELIX  287 

of  dress,  so  loosely  made,  gave  to  the  wearer  of  it  the  look  of 
an  invalid.  Pillows  were  banked  up  behind  her  head.  Even 
when  he  came  close  to  her  he  could  not  see  her  with  real  dis- 
tinctness. The  room  was  too  dark.  Some  strong  perfume 
floated  about  her.     It  was  delicious  but  almost  stifling. 

'  You  see  I  have  obeyed,'  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  took  it,  and  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  beside  the  sofa. 

'  Obeyed  ?  '  he  asked.     '  But — what  do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  I  have  come  back.' 

Her  voice  sounded  thin  and  exhausted.  There  was  no 
resonance  in  its  timbre.     It  was  husky. 

'  Yes,  but ' 

'  Well,  didn't  you  tell  me  to  come  back  ?  Have  you  for- 
gotten that  letter  you  wrote  already  ?  ' 

He  looked  more  closely  into  her  face  to  see  whether  she  was 
angry.  He  could  not  tell  by  her  voice.  That  only  sounded 
tired,  thoroughly  tired  out. 

'But  weren't  you  coming?'  he  asked.  'Weren't  you  coming 
anyhow? ' 

Even  her  face  did  not  tell  him  what  he  wished  to  know. 
Something — the  shadow  on  it,  perhaps,  or  the  way  her  hair  was 
done,  more  loosely,  more  untidily  than  usual — made  it  look 
haggard  and  drawn  and  old.  Yet  there  was  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  colour  that  was  feverish,  he  thought,  almost  artificial  in 
its  brightness. 

'  No,  But  for  your  letter  I  should  have  stayed  on,  I  should 
have  struggled  on  to  the  bitter  end,  till  I  had  to  come  back  to 
meet  Francis.' 

'  But  then  she — Lady  Caroline  isn't ' 

He  hardly  liked  to  speak  of  her,  and  brought  out  the  words 
falteringly  as  if  he  were  speaking  of  a  great  criminal. 

'I  don't  know.  I  don't  believe  so.  And  now  I  hardly  seem 
to  care.  Your  letter  was  very  cruel,  but  it  made  me  look  the 
truth  in  the  face  and  feel  ashamed.  You  are  right.  I  ought 
never  to  have  gone.  I  ought  never  to  have  put  my  friend 
before  my  husband.  But  I  was  carried  away.  You  don't 
know — no  man  can  ever  know — how  we  women  are  the  slaves 
of  our  affections.  No  man  is.  A  man  can  always  stop  and 
think  a  thing  out.     But  we  pay,  we  pay  ! ' 

She  moved  restlessly  on  the  sofa,  with  a  peculiar,  abrupt 
restlessness  almost  as  marked  and  odd  as  that  of  a  child.  It 
seemed  to  indicate  not  merely  a  mind,  but  also  a  body  intensely 
ill  at  ease. 

'  I  say,  you  aren't  ill,  arc  you  ?  '  Felix  said  abruptly. 


288  FELIX 

'111?     No!     What  makes  you  think  so?' 

She  turned  as  if  to  approach  her  face  to  his,  but  then 
checked  herself  and  drew  a  little  further  away. 

'  I  don't  know.     I  'm  glad  you  aren't.' 

'I  'm  not  ill,  that  is,  I  haven't  caught  anything,'  she  went  on, 
with  a  little  bitter  laugh.  '  But  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to 
feel  robust  after  all  I  've  been  through.     I  'm  not  made  of  iron.' 

Her  words,  and  the  way  she  spoke  them,  made  him  feel 
suddenly  that  he  had  been  as  cruel  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

'Oil  do,  please,  forgive  me,'  he  exclaimed. 

He  put  out  his  hand  nervously,  yet  impulsively,  and  laid  it 
on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  just  touching  her  dress. 

'  It  is  good  of  you  to  take  any  notice  of  my  letter  and  not  to 
be  angry  with  me.  After  it  had  gone  I  was  awfully  afraid.  I 
thought — I  didn't  know — I  thought  perhaps  you'd  never  speak 
to  me  again.' 

'And  if  I  hadn't?' 

He  did  not  answer. 

'Would  you  have  cared?' 

After  a  silence  she  heard  him  say,  in  an  odd,  cold  voice : 

'  Yes.' 

His  face  was  hot,  his  whole  body  was  hot  when  he  said  that. 
He  was  very  glad  now  that  the  room  was  so  dark.  She  said 
nothing,  but  again  moved  on  her  pillows,  ungovernably,  as  if  she 
had  felt  something  run  over  her.     When  she  was  still,  he  said  : 

'  I  couldn't  go  on  with  it,  I  simply  couldn't.  So  I  had  to 
tell  you.  I  wrote  rather  in  a  hurry.  I  'm  afraid  perhaps  I 
put  it  rudely.' 

'You  just  put  the  truth  and  it  looked  just  what  it  was — 
ugly.  It 's  the  first  time  I  've  ever  acted  such  a  hideous  lie, 
and  it  shall  be  the  last.  But  sometimes — d'  you  know  sometimes 
I  think  that  even  my  moral  sense  will  be  sapped,  is  sapped 
already  by  all  I  have  had  to  see  and  know.' 

She  turned  towards  him  now,  lifted  herself  up,  and  rested 
her  cheek  on  her  hand,  supporting  herself  on  her  elbow. 

'  If  you  knew  all  I  think  you  would  forgive  me,'  she  said. 

'  But  I — there  's  nothing  for  me  to  forgive.  And  besides 
you  did  it  from  the  noblest  motive.' 

'  Yes,  the  motive  was  good.  After  all,  Carrie  has  been  a 
friend  to  me  in  many  ways.' 

After  a  little  pause,  during  which  she  kept  her  eyes  on  him 
as  if  she  were  considering  narrowly  whether  to  say  something 
to  him  or  not,  she  went  on,  in  a  voice  which  suddenly  sounded 
less  tired: 


FELIX  289 

'You  have  no  idea  how  morpliia  dominates  her.  Till  I  went 
with  her  to  Paris  even  I  did  not  know.' 

'  But  tell  me  something  about  it.     What  do  they  do?' 

He  thought  her  face  looked  brighter  in  the  shadow,  and 
guessed  that  the  idea  of  being  able  to  speak  frankly  to  some 
one  was  a  relief  to  her  mind. 

'It's  extraordinary,'  she  exclaimed,  with  something  like 
vivacity.  '  You  will  hardly  believe  it  if  I  tell  you.  But  this 
morphia  craze  is  spread  secretly  all  through  modern  society. 
Dozens  of  well-known  London  women  could  no  more  get  on 
without  their  piqure  than  you  and  I  without  our  cigarette  or 
our  cup  of  tea.     And  in  Paris  it 's  ten  times  worse.' 

'I've  seen  things  about  it  sometimes  in  the  papers,'  said 
Felix. 

'  The  morphia  habit  is  far  more  prevalent  even  than  they 
say.  Apparently  people  begin  to  inject  either  because  they're 
bored  or  miserable,  or  because  they  feel  over-tired,  or  out  of 
sheer  curiosity.  Carrie  confessed  to  me  that  she  did  it  simply 
to  know  what  the  feeling  was  like,  whether  she  would  have 
delicious  dreams.  She  wanted  to  experience  what  the  German 
doctors  call  Eiiphorie.'' 

'What's  that  exactly?'  asked  Felix,  deeply  interested. 

^ Bien-etre.  We  all  want  to  experience  that,  don't  we?' 
Again  she  made  a  violent  movement.  A  sort  of  shudder  ran 
through  her  body. 

'Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  when  she  began  did  she  have 
dreams  ?     Was  she  happy  ? ' 

'  Surely  the  far  door  is  open,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

Felix  was  surprised  by  the  abruptness  of  the  remark. 

'I  don't  think  so.' 

'I  seem  to  feel  a  draught.     Just  go  and  see,  will  you?' 

Felix  got  up,  traversed  the  long  room  and  turned  the  corner 
into  the  second  drawing-room.  The  door  was  shut.  He  came 
back. 

'No,  it  isn't  open,'  he  said. 

'  How  odd.     I  certainly  felt  a  draught.     I  'm  so  sorry.' 

'  Was  that  why  you  shivered  ? ' 

'  Did  I  shiver  ? '  she  said. 

There  was  a  sort  of  exquisitely  contented  surprise  in  her  voice. 

'But  surely  you  knew  you  did?'  he  said. 

'No.  I'm  quite  warm  now.  It's  comfy  in  here,  isn't  it? 
Just  you  and  I  together.' 

Felix  was  infected  by  the  lazy  serenity  with  which  she  spoke. 
He  looked  round  the  room.     It  was  deliciously  pretty  in  the 


290  FELIX 

faint  light.  In  the  distance  the  fire  danced,  lighting  up  the 
soft,  warm  hues  of  the  wood  with  which  the  walls  were  lined, 
the  shot  silk  above  it.  The  heavy,  pale-yellow  curtains  shut 
out  London,  the  dark  streets,  the  cold.  He  looked  at  her  as 
she  lay  back  on  the  great  sofa  against  the  pile  of  cushions  and 
wondered  why,  when  he  came  in,  he  had  thought  she  looked 
old.  There  must  have  been  some  odd,  disfiguring  shadow  across 
her  face,  for  now  it  seemed  to  him  quite  childish.  Yes,  it  was 
like  the  face  of  a  happy  child. 

'Yes,  it's  splendid  being  here  with  you,'  he  said,  drawing  a 
little  closer  to  her  without  knowing  he  did  so.  ^  Bien-eire 
for  me.' 

^  Euphorie,  bien-etre,''  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  almost  drowsy, 
joyous  languor.  'We  all  seek  that  here  in  the  world  in  our 
different  ways.  Poor  old  Carrie  sought  it  in  that  way,  through 
\ht  ptqureJ 

'  And  did  she  have  it  ? ' 

'Oh  yes.  Carrie  has  had  intense  pleasure.  She's  often 
described  it  to  me.  The  first  time  she  made  a  piqure  she 
injected  a  demi-centigramme.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  lifted  up  her  arms  and  clasped  her  hands  on  the 
cushions  under  her  head. 

'  They  say  that  as  a  rule  after  the  first  injection  people  suffer, 
that  they  only  begin  to  feel  the  Euphone  after  several  injections. 
But  Carrie  felt  it  after  the  very  first.' 

'  What  was  it  like  exactly?     Did  she  tell  you  ? ' 

The  faint  light,  the  strong  perfume  that  floated  round  Mrs. 
Ismey,  and  this  conversation,  with  its  mingling  of  horror 
and  unnatural  happiness,  woke  up  all  the  imagination,  all  the 
curiosity,  even  much  of  the  poetry  in  Felix. 

'She  felt  an  exquisite  languor,  she  told  me,  as  if  she  lay  in 
a  world  all  flooded  with  gold  into  which  sorrow  had  never 
entered.  Just  to  lie  still  in  such  a  world  was  Paradise,  and 
she  wanted  to  lie  there  without  making  a  movement  or  uttering 
a  sound  through  all  eternity.  That  was  her  Euphorie,  endless 
repose  with  endless,  calm  consciousness.  Artivities  seemed 
ridiculous.     And  so  they  are.     She  had  untroubled  peace.' 

'  And  did  it  last  long  ?  ' 

'For  some  hours  at  first.' 

*But  now ' 

'Oh  now,  it's  quite  different.  A  demi-centigramme  would 
have  no  effect  on  her  at  all.     I  should  think  not  ! ' 

She  laughed,  and  her  laugh  sounded  almost  joyous. 

*  D'you  know  where  I  found  her  one  day  in  Paris  ?'  she  said. 


FELIX  291 

«No.     Where?' 

*In  the  house  of  a  morphineuse? 

'  A  tnorphifieuse  ? ' 

'Yes.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  rage  for  morphia  there  is 
in  Paris.     I  didn't  know  till  I  went  there  this  time  with  Carrie.' 

'But  didn't  you  go  because  she  could  be  cured  in  Paiis?' 

'Yes,  of  course.  Barreille,  the  man  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
practises  there.  But  he  practises  in  Paris  because  Paris  is  the 
centre  of  the  cult.' 

'  How  horrible  ! '  said  Felix.     '  A  cult  for  m.orphia  ! ' 

'Yes,  isn't  it.  Everything  that  can  tempt  the  vwrphinomane 
is  to  be  found  in  Paris.  The  morphineuse  is  an  old  woman  who 
makes  a  profession  of  injecting  morphia  into  the  smart  women 
and  the  demi-mofidaines  who  frequent  her  house.  These 
morphineiises  are,  some  of  them,  very  rich.  The  one  Carrie 
went  to  is.' 

'  But  how  did  you  find  out  she  had  gone?     Did  she  tell  you  ?' 

'No.  If  she  had  I  should  never  have  let  her  go.  I  found 
it  out  through  Alice.' 

'Your  maid  !'  said  Felix,  thinking  of  the  quiet  girl  with  the 
emotional  face  whom  he  nad  seen  twice.     'Then  she  knows.' 

'  She  has  to  know.  One  day  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  to  the 
dressmaker.  I  left  Alice  with  Carrie.  Barreille  told  me  Carrie 
was  not  to  be  left  alone  just  then.  He  had  seen  her  once. 
While  I  was  at  the  dressmaker's  Alice  arrived.  She  was  in  a 
fearful  state.  She  told  me  Carrie  had  insisted  on  leaving  the 
hotel  directly  I  had  gone.  Alice  accompanied  her.  They 
drove  to  the  house  of  this  morphi7Kuse,  and  Carrie  went  in 
leaving  Alice  in  the  coupe.     Then  Alice  came  to  fetch  me.' 

'And  you  went?' 

'At  once.' 

The  lantruor  was  going  out  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  voice.  She  began 
to  speak  with  animation,  as  if  her  story  excited  her. 

'  We  drove  into  a  quarter  of  Paris  I  had  never  seen,  a 
horrible,  dreary  quarter  beyond  Montmartre,  and  came  into  a 
dreadful-looking  street — Alice  had  taken  the  address  down — 
and  stopped  before  a  court.  Then  we  got  out,  walked  into 
the  court  and  down  a  narrow,  dark  passage  open  to  the  air, 
and  came  to  a  mean,  little  door.  It  was  all  very  mysterious 
and  frightening,  but  it  was  exciting  too.  You  can  understand 
that?' 

'Rather!'  said  Felix. 

'There  was  a  cord  hantiin^i  beside  the  door.  "Wc  have  to 
pull  that,  ma'am,"  Alice  said.      I  pulled  it  and  heard  a  bell 


292  FELIX 

ring  inside  the  house.  After  a  minute  or  two  the  door  was 
opened  by  a  woman.  She  had  a  complexion  just  hke  Carrie's, 
and  a  black  dress.  No  cap.  She  didn't  look  like  a  servant, 
but  more  like  a  woman  who  shows  you  to  your  seat  in  a 
theatre.  "What  do  you  want?"  she  said.  I  told  her  I  wished 
to  come  in.  "Where's  your  billet  d" entree  V  Of  course  I 
hadn't  one,  and  I  was  obliged  to  say  so.  She  refused  to  let 
us  in.' 

'  What  did  you  do  ? '  asked  Felix  eagerly.  '  Weren't  you 
afraid  ? ' 

He  felt  passionately  interested. 

'No,  not  afraid.  By  that  time  I  felt  I  could  face  anything 
to  get  Carrie  away.  I  was  determined  to  get  in.  I  took  out 
my  purse.  "No,  no,"  the  woman  said.  "If  madame  has  no 
billet  d'entree  madame  cannot  enter."  "  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
police-agent?"  I  asked.  "Madame  cannot  enter!"  repeated 
the  woman.  She  began  to  close  the  door,  but  I  put  in  my 
foot ' 

'  You  are  plucky  ! '  said  Felix  with  enthusiasm. 

He  looked  at  her  almost  with  amazement.  It  seemed 
wonderful  to  him  that  the  vvoman  who  lay  there  against  the 
pile  of  cushions,  with  her  hand's  clasped  behind  her  shining 
hair,  and  all  the  thousand  pretty  things  of  her  home  about 
her,  could  show  such  determination,  could  penetrate  into  the 
squalor  of  a  low  den  of  Paris,  fearless  of  danger,  heedless  of 
the  possible  horrors  it  concealed. 

'  Well,  how  could  I  leave  Carrie  there  ?'  she  said  carelessly. 

'And  you  got  in  ?' 

'Yes.     But  I  had  to  act  a  part.' 

♦What  part?' 

'  I  had  to  pretend  that  Alice  and  I  were  clients  as  they  call 
them,  that  we  had  come  to  have  injections.' 

'You!     How  atrocious  ! ' 

'  It  was  the  only  way.  I  said  I  had  a  friend  there.  I  gave 
Carrie's  name,  and  Alice  told  the  woman  that  she  had  left 
Carrie  there.  The  woman  went  away,  and  after  a  few  minutes 
came  back  and  let  us  in.  We  went  up  a  lot  of  steep  stairs. 
They  were  very  dark.  Presently  we  got  into  a  corridor.  Alice 
was  awfully  frightened,  but  I  didn't  care  a  bit.  I  was  too 
interested  to  see  what  it  would  be  like.  At  the  end  of  the 
corridor  there  was  a  big,  hideous  room.  This  was  what  they 
call  the  salle  de  reception.  D'  you  know,  it  was  like  a  sort  of 
dream  there.  This  huge  room  was  only  lit  by  a  great  fire, 
a  great  red  fire  burning  at  one  end.     There  were  heavy  curtains 


FELIX  293 

over  the  windows,  and  the  only  furniture  was  a  number  of  broad 
divans  ranged  all  along  the  walls,  which  were  covered  with  some 
dingy  paper  with  a  horrid-looking  pattern — snakes,  or  leaves 
or  something — I  couldn't  see  properly.  Quantities  of  great 
cushions  were  scattered  over  these  divans,  and  on  them  were 
sitting  and  lying  women — the  morphinomanes.  There  must  have 
been  eight  or  nine  of  them.  Of  course  they  were  all  different, 
and  yet,  in  a  way,  they  were  all  alike.  They  were  all  alike 
because  they  were  all  waiting  to  have  the  morphia  put  into 
them.' 

'  How  disgusting ! '  exclaimed  Felix. 

'They  were  sitting  or  lying  there  almost  like  dead  people, 
staring  at  each  other  in  the  firelight  with  hollow,  expressionless 
eyes.  Such  eyes  !  They  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  caverns 
at  something  a  very  long  way  off.  Two  or  three  of  these 
women  were  trembling,  almost  as  if  they  had  convulsions.  One 
kept  on  opening  and  shutting  her  two  hands  as  if  she  were 
keeping  time  to  music.  Another  was  holding  an  unlit  cigarette 
between  her  teeth  and  stretching  out  her  arms.  There  was 
a  girl  in  one  corner  crying  dreadfully,  almost  howling.  She 
terrified  Alice.' 

'And  you?' 

'No,  I  wasn't  a  bit  terrified.' 

She  spoke  almost  gaily,  and  with  a  sort  of  light-hearted 
excitement. 

'  I  wonder  you  weren't,'  Felix  said,  with  an  earnestness  ot 
surprise  that  seemed  to  strike  her. 

'  Of  course  I  hated  it,'  she  said.  'But  it  wouldn't  be  true  to 
say  I  was  frightened.  Once  I  saw  the  howling  dervishes  at 
Cairo.  Well,  I  felt  just  like  when  I  saw  them — as  if  it  were  a 
sort  of  dreadful  show.' 

'I  see.' 

He  began  to  understand. 

'I  believe  you  would  have  felt  the  same,'  she  added. 

'  I  dare  say  I  should.' 

'There  was  one  woman  who  was  beautifully  dressed,  a  real 
mondaine  of  Paris.  She  had  torn  open  all  the  front  of  her 
gown  and — but  I  can't  tell  you  everything.' 

'No,  no,'  said  Felix  quickly.     'And  Lady  Caroline?' 

'She  was  there,  sitting  by  quite  an  old  woman  with  white 
hair.  I  went  up  to  her.  Alice  wouldn't  stir  from  the  door. 
She  lost  her  head.  I  went  to  Carrie  and  asked  her  to  come 
away.  I  begged  and  prayed  her  to  come.  She  wouldn't.  The 
other  women   took  no   notice  of  us.     They  were  all   looking 


294  FELIX 

towards  one  side  of  the  room  where  there  was  a  door  partly 
covered  with  a  curtain.  I  found  out  afterwards  that  this  door 
led  into  the  room  of  the  morphineuse.  I  made  quite  a  scene 
with  Carrie,  but  it  was  all  no  use.  She  only  pushed  me  away, 
when  I  stood  in  front  of  her,  and  said,  "  Let  me  see  the  door, 
will  you  ?  "  At  last  I  was  in  despair,  and  I  went  back  towards 
Alice.  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  meant  to  do.  I  think  I 
meant  to  make  Alice  try  if  she  could  persuade  Carrie.  But 
there  was  no  time,  for  just  then  the  door  of  the  morphineuse 
opened.' 

Mrs.  Ismey  paused.  Felix  could  see  that  her  eyes  were 
gleaming  with  excitement.  As  she  went  on  with  her  story  her 
vivacity  of  manner  had  increased.  She  was  sitting  almost 
upright  against  the  cushions,  and  pressing  them  with  her  twc 
hands. 

'  A  lot  of  light  shone  in  all  over  the  room,  and  a  woman  came 
towards  us.  Oh,  Felix,  she  looked  so  happy  !  Perhaps  it  was 
the  contrast  between  her  and  all  the  other  women  that — no,  it 
wasn't,  though — anywhere  you  would  have  been  struck  by  her. 
She  walked  as  if  she  was  on  air,  so  easily  and  lightly,  and  she 
looked  as  young  as  a  schoolgirl.  Her  lips  were  bright  red,  and 
her  eyes  were  shining.  But  I  had  hardly  time  to  see  her,  for 
all  the  women  sprang  up  from  the  divans  like  mad  creatures, 
and  rushed  towards  the  morphi?ieuse,  who  came  to  the  threshold 
of  the  room  just  then.  They  were  all  screaming  to  her  to  let 
them  come  in  next.  They  cried  out,  "It's  my  turn  !  It's  my 
turn!"  They  even  pushed  against  each  other,  and  tried  to 
drag  each  other  away  so  as  to  be  first.' 

'  Not  Lady  Caroline  surely ! '  said  Felix,  scarcely  able  to 
believe  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth. 

'Yes,  Carrie  was  one  of  the  most  violent.' 

'  And  the  morphinetise — what  was  she  like  ? ' 

'  She  was  a  wrinkled  old  woman.  She  had  a  lamp  in  her 
hand  and  a  dirty  shawl  wrapped  round  her,  and  she  stood 
there  looking  after  the  woman  who  had  just  come  out  with  a 
smile,  as  if  she  was  pleased  at  the  result  of  what  she  had 
done.' 

'Old  beast!'  muttered  Felix,  under  his  breath. 

'She  didn't  take  the  slightest  notice  of  all  the  screaming, 
hustling  women  at  first,  but  when  she  did  she  chose  Carrie.' 

'And  you  couldn't  do  anything?' 

'  I  tried  to.  But  if  you  had  seen  those  women  !  They  were 
ready  to  tear  each  other  to  pieces.  I  was  frightened  at  last, 
and  i  ran  back  to  Alice.     As  the  door  of  the  morphineuse  shut 


FELIX  295 

I   heard   Carrie    saying,    "Three   piqures,    Madame    Virginie, 

three   piqures.      You    know    you '    and    that    was    all.      I 

went  down  to  the  coupe  and  waited  there.  And  Carrie  came  at 
last.' 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  Mrs.  Ismey  lay 
back  again.     Her  face  was  turned  towards  Felix. 

'It's  just  like  a  nightmare,'  he  said  at  length.  *If  any  one 
but  you ' 

*You  wouldn't  believe  it?' 

*I  don't  think  I  could.  It  seems  so  impossible  that — that 
women  who  are  ladies  could  ever  be  like  that,  unless  they  were 
really  mad.  And  they  aren't  mad.  Why,  I  suppose  if  I  were 
to  meet  any  of  those  women  away  from  the  morphineuse  I  should 
never  guess  there  was  anything  the  matter  with  them.* 

'Probably  not.' 

•Why  do  you  smile?' 

'I  smile  1'  she  said.  'What  do  you  mean?  I  didn't 
smile.' 

'Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  must  have  been  the  flicker  of 
the  fire.' 

'Yes.     I  am  not  inclined  to  smile  over  such  horrors.' 

She  sighed  heavily. 

'And  Lady  Caroline  has  come  back  with  you?' 

'Yes.  Barreille  seems  to  have  done  her  some  good.  She 
has  diminished  the  amount  she  injects.  But  it  won't  last. 
The  only  real  chance  for  her  would  be  to  be  shut  up.  And 
she'll  never  consent  to  that.  Bareille  told  me  she  ought  to  go 
into  one  of  those  homes.  There  are  several.  There's  one  at 
Charenton  and  another  at  Ivry-sur-Seine.  He  told  me  all  about 
the  treatment.     It  was  very  interesting.' 

Felix  had  just  been  thinking  how  deeply  interested  she 
evidently  was  in  the  horrible  subject  they  were  discussing. 
But  he  understood  her  interest,  for  he  shared  it.  Everything 
that  dominates  has  some  fascination.  He  said  so  to  her  now, 
moved,  he  did  not  know  why,  to  explain  her  attitude  of  mind 
and  his  to  themselves. 

'That's  exactly  it,'  she  answered  eagerly.  'It  would  be 
strange  and  almost  unnatural  if  I  were  not  interested  in  a  thing 
that  has  taken  absolute  possession  of  a  woman  so  strong  as 
Carrie.  She  would  sacrifice  everything,  love,  honour,  even  a 
life  I  believe,  to  obtain  a  supply  of  morphia  if  she  were  without 
it.  D'you  know,  if  I  were  to  try  forcibly  to  keep  her  from  it 
I  am  sure  she  would  kill  me  in  order  to  get  it.' 

'But  then  she  is  mad.' 


296  FELIX 

*  No.  You  could  not  get  a  doctor  to  say  so.  Besides,  really, 
she  isn't.     You  know  she  isn't.' 

'She  always  seems  to  me  clever  and  strong,'  said  Felix. 

He  was  thinking  of  Lady  Caroline  as  he  had  known  her.  It 
was  almost  incredible  to  him  that  she  could  turn  into  one  of  the 
furies  at  the  house  of  the  morphifieuse. 

*I  shall  never,  never  be  able  to  read  people,'  he  added,  in  a 
sort  of  almost  despairing  outburst.  'It  does  make  life  hateful 
all  these  hidden  things.  It  is  as  if  we  were  always  wandering 
about  in  a  London  fog.' 

'Ah,  but  some  people  let  us  understand  them.  Some  people 
want  to  be  understood.     You  shouldn't  say  that.' 

By  the  way  she  spoke  he  knew  she  alluded  to  herself  and 
him. 

'  Do  you  really  like  me  to  understand  you  ? '  he  said,  almost 
wistfully. 

'You  know  I  do.     Haven't  I  confided  in  you?' 

*  Yes.     That  is  true.     And  yet ' 

'  What  more  can  I  do  ? ' 

'There  are  things — will  you  let  me  ask  you  something?' 

♦Yes.' 

♦Why  didn't  you  wish  me  to  go  into  your  husband's  office?' 

♦I  didn't  me  n  to  tell  you,  but  you  have  done  so  much  for 
me  that  I  owe  it  to  you  now.  It  was  an  utterly  selfish  motive. 
I  thought — I  don't  know  why,  for  I  scarcely  knew  you — but  I 
thought  some  day  I  should  want  a  friend,  a  friend  who  would 
be  absolutely  free  to  help  me.  I  required  help,  and  there  was 
something  about  you,  something  good  and  straight  and  manly — 
I  don't  know.  We  women  don't  reason  when  we  choose.  We 
just  see  and  choose.     I  chose  you.     Are  you  angry  ? ' 

'  Angry  ! '  he  said. 

He  could  not  have  spoken  a  second  word  at  that  moment. 
He  clasped  his  hot  hands  tightly  together  on  his  knees. 

'And  because  I  chose  you  I  wanted  to  keep  you  free.  If 
you  had  been  in  my  husband's  office  you  would  have  been 
bound  to  him,  to  a  certain  extent.  I  felt  your  sense  of  honour. 
They  say  women  haven't  got  any.' 

'That  isn't  true,'  he  said  quickly  and  almost  hotly. 

'I  hope  not.  At  any  rate,  honour  or  not,  what  I  felt  was  that 
if  you  had  accepted  a  sort  of  career  at  my  husband's  hands,  you 
could  never  have  taken  Carrie's  side  if  it  came  to  a  question  of 
helping  me  for  her — as  you  did  with  those  letters.  Oh,  I'm  a 
fool,  I  'm  a  fool,  and  perhaps  I  'm  wicked.  But  I  knew  and 
loved  Carrie  before  I  ever  saw  my  husband.     It 's  abominable, 


FELIX  297 

but  I  can't  help  putting  her  first  somethnes,  and  all  the 
more  because  he's  as  straight  as  a  die  and  she's  all  wrong. 
One  seems  to  owe  more  somehow  to  the  sinner.  You  '11 
hate  me.' 

'Hate  you!'  he  said. 

As  he  spoke  he  had  a  feeling  as  if  a  flame  went  over  his  body 
seeking  the  way  to  his  heart 

It  found  the  way. 


CHAPTER   XXIIl 

WHEN  Felix  left  Green  Street  that  evening  he  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  baptized  into  manhood.  Hitherto,  perhaps, 
he  had  played  at  being  a  man.  He  had  said  to  himself  that  he 
was  a  man.  But  he  had  said  it  with  a  lurking  doubt.  When, 
at  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  he  finished  reading  the  Comedie 
Humaine  he  gloried  in  his  knowledge,  putting  it  in  the  place  of 
experience.  He  exulted.  That  was  a  boy's  act.  He  knew 
that  now.  He  laughed  at  himself  as  he  went  home.  He 
remembered  the  days  in  the  chapel,  his  thoughts  there,  his 
dissection  of  Grand'mere,  his  emotion  at  the  sound  of  the 
Angelus  bell.  What  a  boy  he  was  then.  Perhaps  even  about 
Grand'mere  he  had  been  wrong.  But  no.  There  are  in  the 
world  some  sweet,  simple,  transparent  souls,  with  depths  per- 
haps, but  depths  so  calm,  so  serenely  clear  that  the  gaze  can 
plumb  them  as  it  can  plumb  the  depths  of  the  Ionian  Sea  near 
shore  in  still  weather.  Thank  God  for  such  souls.  Grand'mere, 
his  mother,  Margot — he  thought  of  them  that  night  with  a 
certain  gratitude. 

Felix  was  strong  and  still  that  night  and  very  grave.  Mrs. 
Ismey  had  found  him  good,  straight,  manly.  She,  so  full  of 
instinct,  had,  when  she  first  saw  him,  chosen  him  as  the  man 
among  men  upon  whom  she  could  rely.  She  had  asked  a 
sacrifice  of  him  to  keep  hmi  her  friend  without  dishonour.  He 
told  himself  that.  He  did  not  say  to  himself  with  as  little  dis- 
honour as  possible.  Her  choice,  the  sacrifice  he  had  made,  her 
return,  the  revelation  which  had  followed  it,  all  these  things  had 
gone  to  the  making  of  the  man  whose  name  was  Felix.  But  the 
baptism — that  was  with  fire. 

In  the  moment  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  taking  possession  of  him, 
coming  into  her  kingdom  of  him,  Felix  felt  that  he  took  posses- 
sion of  himself,  came  into  his  kingdom  of  himself.  It  was  a 
tremendous  sensation.  He  did  not  analyse  it  much.  He  did 
not  think  very  much  just  then.  But  as  the  athlete,  at  the  end 
of  a  long  course  of  training,  feels  the  iron  of  his  muscles, 
Felix  mentally  felt  the  iron  of  his  manhood.     And  he  said  to 

298 


FELIX  299 

himself  with  some  wonder,  but  not  with  wonder  only,  'This 
is  I.' 

Mrs.  Ismey,  with  the  supreme  cleverness  that  belongs  to 
many  women  when  they  deal  with  human  relations,  taught  him 
to  love  her  face  by  telling  him  to  look  at  his  own.  It  was  the 
subtlest  touch  upon  the  string  of  vanity. 

After  that  night,  when  other  days  dawned  with  all  their  sounds 
of  work  and  pleasure,  Felix  knew  more  than  that  he  had  been 
baptized  a  man.  The  flame  found  its  way  to  his  heart  and  he 
saw  it  burning  there  without  shame.  He  felt  that  he  loved  Mrs. 
Ismey,  but  he  had  no  consciousness  of  anything  disgraceful  in 
such  a  love.  He  did  not  even  go  so  far  as  to  mention  to  him- 
self any  such  word  as  Platonic,  or  to  call  up  the  figure  of  Mr. 
Ismey,  either  in  an  enemy's  pose,  or  in  the  drearier  attitude  of 
one  feebly  acquiescent  in  an  undignified  situation. 

Whether  Mrs.  Ismey  knew  of  his  love  or  not  he  did  not  at 
first  ask  himself.  Probably  he  felt  sure  that  she  did  know.  It 
would  have  been  strange  if  she,  who  divined  so  often  his  slightest 
thoughts,  had  remained  in  doubt  about  a  feeling  connected  with 
herself  which  governed  him.  For  he  was  governed.  The 
secret  impetuosity,  from  which  had  sprung  the  ardours  and  the 
melancholies  of  the  child,  the  instinct  of  worship  which  had 
caused  the  little  boy  to  imitate  the  bodily  afflictions  of  others, 
and  to  adore  that  which  was  peculiar  and  not  wholly  natural, 
without  realising  its  peculiarity,  its  distance  from  nature,  these 
dominant  traits  in  his  character  now  asserted  themselves  as  they 
had  never  asserted  themselves  before.  Mrs.  Ismey  was  the  first 
woman  outside  of  his  family-circle  who  had  treated  him  as  a 
man,  who  had  clung  to  him  in  difficulties,  confided  in  him, 
relied  on  him.  Even  without  her  charm  her  action  might  have 
bound  him  to  her.     With  it  there  was  steel  in  the  strands. 

Having  given  up  one  thing  for  her,  the  place  in  the  office  of 
Ismey  and  Co.,  Felix  woke  to  the  lust  of  self-sacrifice.  He  loved 
her,  he  told  himself,  for  all  she  had  done,  was  doing  for  Lady 
Caroline.  And  he — it  was  the  child's  trait  repeated  with  a 
difference  in  the  youth — longed  to  imitate  her  efforts  of  un- 
selfishness. But  at  first  the  lust  went  almost  unfed.  Strangely 
enough  it  was  his  mother  who  made  the  sacrifice  he  longed  to 
offer  up  on  his  own  account.  That  hundred  pounds,  not  paid 
back  on  the  Saturday,  was  not  paid  back  at  all.  For  a  week  or 
two  after  she  returned  from  Paris  Mrs.  Ismey  forgot  to  mention 
it.  Felix  remembered  it,  because  he  renicnibered  his  promise 
to  repay  his  mother  on  a  certain  day,  and  found  himself  in  a 
difficulty.     After  the  incident  of  the  telegram,  and  still  more 


300  FELIX 

now  that  he  had  become  conscious  of  all  he  felt  for  Mrs.  Ismey, 
any  discussion  between  his  mother  and  him  with  regard  to  the 
money  would  be  intolerable.  For  this  reason  above  all  he 
longed  to  pay  it  back.  He  could  not.  And  this  fact  kept  him 
from  going  home.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  could  not  endure 
to  go  home  till  the  money  was  paid,  till  the  score  was  clear. 
His  mother  would  not  speak  of  the  matter,  probably,  but  she 
would  be  thinking  of  it,  wondering  about  it,  remembering  that 
telegram  signed  with  Mrs.  Ismey's  Christian  name.  He  grew  hot 
at  the  thought.  Already,  perhaps,  his  mother  was  imagining, 
certainly  she  must  be  imagining  all  sorts  of  things  about  himself 
and  Mrs.  Ismey.  That  cursed  telegram  !  It  and  its  result 
seemed  to  vulgarise  the  great  friendship  which  was  doing  so 
much  for  him.  Again  and  again,  in  the  light  of  his  new  know- 
ledge of  himself,  Felix  rehearsed  that  horrible  little  scene  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Hill  House  when  Mrs.  Wilding  had  warned  him 
against  women.  Women  !  She  must  have  meant  Mrs.  Ismey. 
And  it  was  she,  not  he  really,  who  had  given  Mrs.  Ismey  that 
money.  He  would  be  twenty-one  in  January.  Then,  if  Mrs. 
Ismey  had  not  returned  it  before,  he  could  pay  it  back  at  once. 

But  meanwhile ?     Even  if  he  saved  out  of  his  allowance  it 

would  be  utterly  impossible  to  get  such  a  sum  together  before 
he  came  of  age.  He  had  to  break  his  word  to  his  mother. 
That  was  bad  enough.  But  he  had  also  to  write  and  apologise 
for  breaking  it.  He  did  so.  While  he  wrote  his  cheeks  burned, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  anger  against  his  mother. 
The  letter  was  brief,  the  allusion  to  the  money  very  brief.  He 
simply  said  he  was  '  most  awfully  sorry,'  that  he  had  felt  abso- 
lutely certain  of  paying  the  money  back  on  the  Saturday,  and 
that  he  hoped  to  do  so  almost  at  once.  His  mother's  reply 
made  him  very  much  ashamed  of  that  unreasonable  sensation  of 
anger.  She  wrote  that  the  money  was  really  his  and  that  there 
was  no  necessity  to  think  any  more  about  it.  She  did  not  ask  him 
when  he  was  coming  home.  During  these  weeks  before  Christ- 
mas he  began  to  notice  that  there  was  a  great  lack  of  vivacity 
in  her  letters.  She  wrote  very  often,  generally  three  times  a 
week,  but  she  seemed  to  have  little  to  say,  and  what  she  had  to 
say  was  expressed  without  any  vigour.  The  letters  were  tired 
letters  without  being  actually  sad.  She  alluded  to  the  persistent 
blackness  of  the  weather,  said  she  could  get  out  very  Httle,  that 
it  was  cold  for  driving,  and  so  muddy  in  the  lanes  that  it  was 
very  fatiguing  to  walk.  She  had  a  cough.  Once  when  she 
wrote  she  had  been  in  bed  for  two  days.  She  thought  she  had 
caught  a  chill  coming   from   church   one   Sunday  afternoon. 


FELIX  301 

Felix  hoped  she  was  not  going  to  become  a  malade  imaginaire. 
He  urged  hei  in  his  letters  not  to  coddle  herself,  but  to  get  out 
and  take  plenty  of  air  and  exercise.  'That's  what  you  want,' 
he  wrote.  'You  wrap  up  far  too  much  and  shut  yourself  in- 
doors. No  one  can  feel  strong  if  they  lead  an  unwholesome 
life.'  And  as  he  wrote  he  wished  he  could  give  everybody 
plenty  of  common-sense.  At  such  moments  he  knew  he  was  so 
full  of  it.  '  Don't  be  always  on  the  sofa  ! '  was  another  of  his 
maxims  for  home  consumption.  'There's  nothing  on  earth  so 
enervating  as  perpetually  lying  down  on  a  sofa.' 

When  he  went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Ismey  he  nearly  always  found 
her  stretched  on  the  big  sofa  in  the  pretty  room  in  Green  Street. 
But  that  was  quite  different.  The  attitude  suited  her.  Her 
shining  hair  looked  deliciously  alive  against  the  pale  cushions 
with  their  attenuated  colours.  Felix  had  only  once  seen  her 
walking  out  of  doors.  She  was  not  one  of  the  athletic  sister- 
hood. She  never  went  to  Prince's  except  now  and  then  to  sit 
at  a  tea-table  and  look  on  at  tlie  skaters.  She  never  rode  or 
danced,  or  in  fact  made  any  bodily  exertion  as  far  as  he  knew. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  she  ought  to,  or  that  she  was 
neglecting  one,  and  an  admirable  side  of  life.  He  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  see  her  in  a  pretty  room,  surrounded  by 
flowers,  books,  music,  tea-cups.  So,  while  he  almost  hotly 
advised  his  mother  to  take  plenty  of  exercise  in  the  raw  air  of 
the  muddy  country  lanes  round  Hill  House,  he  loved  to  find 
Mrs.  Ismey  reposing  in  her  dimly  lit  drawing-room,  which  was 
always  kept  very  warm  and  very  scented. 

One  day  she  alluded  to  the  money  which  had  not  been  paid 
back.  She  had  just  been  speaking  of  Lady  Caroline,  and  of  the 
terrible  confusion  into  which  those  who  took  drugs  always 
allowed  their  affairs  to  get.  He  guessed  why,  immediately 
afterwards,  she  thought  of  the  cheque  he  had  given  her. 

'  I  am  so  ashamed,'  she  said,  'about  that  money.  Every  day 
I  have  expected  to  give  it  you,  and  every  day ' 

She  hesitated. 

'Well,  if  I  could  tell  you  all  I  don't  think  you  would  blame 
me.  I  dare  say  you  are  surprised,  seeing  how  we  live,  that  I 
should  be  unable  to  find  a  hundred  pounds,  but ' 

'  Don't,  don't  explain!' he  exclaimed.    'I  understand  perfectly.' 

'No,  but  you  ought  to  know  more.  It  isn't  fair.  I  feel 
sometimes  as  if  I  were  a  sort  of  cheat  when  you  are  sitting  here, 
when  you  see  all  these  flowers  and  new  books.  You  must  say 
to  yourself:  "If  she  liked  she  could  pay  me.'" 

'No,  never.' 


302  FELIX 

'Ah,  but  you  are  chivalrous,  the  most  chivalrous  man  I  ever 
met.  The  truth  is,  it  is  Francis  who  is  rich,  and — well,  if  I  want 
money  I  have  to  explain  why  I  want  it.  I  can't  tell  lies  easily. 
If  I  could  I  should  have  a  much  better  time.  I  wanted  that 
hundred  pounds  to  do  something  he  would  never  have  con- 
sented to.  As  I  wouldn't  tell  him  a  lie  I  couldn't  ask  him. 
But  sometimes  now  I  think  there  would  have  been  less  wicked- 
ness in  telling  a  lie  to  Francis  than  in  breaking  a  promise  to  you.' 

Tears  suddenly  came  into  her  eyes. 

*I  do  hate  to  seem  to  play  you  false,' she  said.  'It  makes 
me  feel  so  little  and  mean.' 

'  But  you  know  I  understand  about  the  money.  You  must 
know  that,'  he  said, 

'  I  don't  wish  you  to  understand  about  it,'  she  said.  '  I  am 
very  extravagant.' 

He  laughed.  He  knew  so  well  she  was  playing  a  comedy  of 
selfishness  for  his  benefit  to  conceal  her  virtue  which  he  adored. 
She  could  read  him.  He  began  to  read  her.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  since  the  evening  when  they  met  after  her  return  from  Paris 
she  was  very  much  clearer  to  him.  The  flame  in  his  heart  lit  up 
the  places  which  had  been  so  dark.  She  was  less  of  an  enigma 
than  she  had  been,  and,  because  he  felt  that,  he  was  far  more 
at  ease  with  her.   But  he  was  not  without  anxieties  on  her  account. 

The  boy  dawning  into  a  man  among  all  the  sensations  in  the 
armoury  of  the  soul  loves  most  the  protective.  Felix  felt  that 
since  he  was  Mrs.  Ismey's  greatest  friend  and  confidant  he 
ought  to  protect  her  if,  and  when,  she  required  protection;  and 
heoften  felt,  during  those  weeks  between  her  return  from  Paris 
and  Christmas,  that  she  did  require  protection.  Her  readiness 
for  self-sacrifice  in  regard  to  Lady  Caroline  was  too  great.  In 
this  friendship  her  impulsiveness  broke  all  bounds. 

Since  he  knew  that  he  loved  her  he  became  more  observant, 
not  less,  of  her.  That  was  absolutely  characteristic  of  him. 
She  noticed  the  change. 

'You  are  always  watching  me,'  she  said  to  him  one  day, 
almost  uneasily  he  thought. 

He  looked  rather  uncomfortable.  It  was  quite  true,  but  he 
had  not  meant  that  she  should  see  it. 

*  Well,'  she  went  on.     '  You  don't  deny  it ! ' 

*  I  can't,'  he  said.     '  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  * 

*No.  But  why  do  you  watch  me?  Is  there  anything  odd 
about  me  ? ' 

*  Odd — how  do  you  mean  ?    You  are  not  like  other  people.' 
*Yes,  I  am.' 


FELIX  803 

She  really  spoke  with  some  irritation. 

'Why,  what  difference  is  there  between  me  and  other  women?* 
she  went  on. 

'  I  think  you  are  different  in — oh,  in  ever  so  many  ways.* 

That  was  true.  He  did  find  her  strange.  Her  moods  altered 
rapidly  and  almost  inexplicably.  Sometimes  he  found  her  dull, 
weary,  almost  stupid,  unable  to  be  interested  in  anything,  or  to 
pursue  any  topic  of  conversation.  She  would  lie  on  the  sofa, 
while  he  sat  by  her,  staring  into  vacancy  with  eyes  devoid  of 
expression.  If  she  talked  she  glanced  aimlessly  from  one 
subject  to  another.  If  he  talked  she  would  sometimes  interrupt 
him  with  mal-a-propos  remarks.  Or  she  would  repeat  the  same 
remark  again  and  again,  each  time  apparently  quite  unconscious 
that  she  had  made  it  before.  He  guessed  then  that  she  was 
painfully  preoccupied  with  Lady  Caroline's  condition  ;  that  her 
friend  had  startled  or  disgusted  her  by  some  fresh  outbreak  or 
vagary  of  a  disordered  mind.  Once  or  twice  he  had  asked  her 
if  it  were  not  so,  and  she  had  been  obliged  to  acknowledge  the 
accuracy  of  his  suspicions.  But  there  were  other  moments 
when  she  was  startlingly  gay  and  brilliant,  full  of  animal  spirits 
and  of  almost  rollicking  merriment.  She  showed  then  extreme 
interest  in  every  subject  which  they  discussed.  His  slightest 
remark  grasped  her  attention  or  appealed  to  her  imagination. 
She  was  the  most  perfect  listener  in  the  world  and,  he  thought, 
the  most  delightful  talker,  by  turns.  Any  one  who  sat  with  her 
at  such  moments  would  have  pronounced  her  an  optimist  of  the 
most  light-hearted  type.  She  saw  everything  en  rose,  was  con- 
fident that  the  sorrows  of  the  world  were  only  for  the  moment, 
that  black  would  fade  out  of  life,  that  everything  which  seemed 
crooked  would  be  straight  in  the  end.  Even  Felix  could  not 
go  as  far  as  she  went  into  the  regions  of  delicious  certainty,  of 
vivacious  faith  in  the  destniy  of  happiness  which  awaited  the 
individual  and  the  race.  Then  he  knew  that  she  had  a  hope  of 
Lady  Caroline's  salvation.  And  her  ajjpearance  altered  in  the 
same  way,  and  almost  as  markedly  as  her  moods.  Sometimes 
she  looked  ill,  faded.  Her  skin  was  dry  and  stretched.  Her 
eyes  seemed  to  Felix  to  be  shrivelled  in  her  head.  They  looked 
smaller  than  usual  and  fainter  in  colour.  The  fires  in  them 
were  extinguished.  There  were  tiny  lines  about  them  and  about 
her  mouth,  the  lips  of  which  were  parched  and  pale.  At  other 
times  she  was  radiant.  He  seemed  to  be  sitting  with  a  girl, 
fresh,  dewy,  with  sparkling  eyes  and  that  definite  expression 
of  youth  about  the  mouth  which  art  fails  to  imitate  with  all 
its   ingenuities.      Then   her   lovely   hair,    which,   he    fancied, 


so  4  FELIX 

grew  more  thickly  every  day  upon  her  beautifully  shaped,  small 
head,  was  a  perfect  frame  to  her  face.  But  wh^^n  she  looked 
ill  there  was  something  strange,  even  something  horrible  in 
its  abundance,  its  individuality,  as  if  it  stood  aloof  from 
her,  refusing  to  have  part  or  lot  in  the  transformations  she 
underwent. 

These  changes,  of  which  he  knew  he  understood  very  well 
the  cause,  awoke  in  Felix  that  protective  instinct  so  cherished 
by  youth  on  the  verge  of  manhood,  and  also  another  feeling 
akm  to  jealousy.  Mrs.  Ismey,  in  her  unselfishness  and  her 
sensitiveness,  allowed  herself  to  be  really  at  the  mercy  of  Lady 
Caroline.  That  was  what  Felix  felt,  what  he  began  internally 
to  protest  against,  for  her  sake  and — perhaps,  but  he  did  not 
say  so  to  himself — for  his  own. 

He  had  seen  nothing  of  Lady  Caroline  since  she  had  come 
back  from  Paris.  Now  that  he  knew  so  much  about  her  a 
sort  of  horror  of  her  had  taken  possession  of  him.  Mrs.  Ismey 
did  not  try  to  dissipate  it.  He  recognised  that  she  was  certain 
of  the  uselessness  of  any  such  attempt  on  her  part. 

'I  think  if  Lady  Caroline  asks  me  to  go  to  see  her  I'll 
make  some  excuse,'  he  had  said  to  her. 

'  If  you  really  feel  like  that ! '  was  all  she  answered. 

But  he  knew  she  understood.  Lady  Caroline  sent  him  two 
invitations.  He  pleaded  other  engagements,  left  his  card  at 
her  door,  and  there  was  an  end  of  the  matter.  He  did  not 
meet  her  at  Mrs.  Ismey's,  and  guessed  that  Mrs.  Ismey  arranged 
matters  so  that  he  should  not.  It  was  an  evidence  of  her 
delicacy  of  feeling.  Besides  the  repugnance  which  he  felt 
towards  Lady  Caroline,  there  was  something  else  which  pre- 
vented him  from  wishing  to  meet  her.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  knew  too  much  about  her,  that  to  be  with  her  now  would  be 
almost  an  indecency,  to  accept  her  hospitality  a  sort  of  outrage. 
He  could  not  regret  knowing  what  he  did,  since  without  such 
knowledge  he  could  not  know  Mrs.  Ismey  rightly ;  but  he  could 
keep  away  from  her.  She  was  far  too  careless  a  woman  to 
bother  about  any  one,  and  when  one  day  Mrs.  Ismey  said  to 
him,  '  I  believe  Carrie 's  forgotten  your  existence,'  Felix  was  not 
at  all  surprised. 

'  I  sometimes  wish  you  had  forgotten  hers,'  he  said. 

As  usual  she  was  lying  down  on  the  sofa.  Felix  had  called, 
as  he  often  did,  after  leaving  Sam's  school.  To-day  she  was 
looking  ill  and  haggard,  and  was  in  melancholy  spirits. 

•Why?'  she  asked,  without  curiosity. 

*  Because  I  think  you  are  too  much  her  slave.' 


FELIX  805 

His  blunt  remark  seemed  momentarily  to  rouse  her,  even  to 
startle  her. 

'  I — Carrie's  slave  ! '  she  said,  almost  as  if  she  were  alarmed. 
'  I  !     What  nonsense  ! ' 

She  began  to  laugh  rather  unnaturally. 

'Through  your  affection  for  her,  I  mean,'  Felix  went  on. 

As  he  looked  at  Mrs.  Ismey's  white,  weary  face  and  hollow 
eyes  the  anger  and  jealousy  of  Lady  Caroline,  which  had 
been  smouldering  in  him,  began  to  glow. 

'You  are  so  wrapped  up  in  her  that  everything  she  does 
affects  you,  not  only  your  spirits  but  even  your  health.  Vour 
unselfishness  is  splendid,  I  know.  Don't  think  I  don't  feel 
that.  But — I  say,  don't  be  angry  with  me — unselfishness  in 
regard  to  her  may  be  selfishness  in  regard  to  others.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  others  ?  ' 

The  animation  had  died  out  of  her  face  and  manner  already. 

'Well,  your  husband,  for  instance,'  said  Felix,  a  little  dis- 
ingenuously. He  paused,  and  then  added,  '  And  perhaps  your 
other  friends.' 

'Oh.' 

She  spoke  the  word  so  dully  that  he  wondered  if  she  had 
heard  what  he  had  said.     He  began  to  hate  Lady  Caroline. 

'You  don't  care  what  I  sa\  !'  he  exclaimed.  'You  don't 
care  for  anything  when  you  are  thinking  about  her.  Some  day 
you'll  make  me  feel  about  Lady  Caroline  as — as  your  husband 
feels.' 

'I  can't  help  it  if  you  do,'  she  replied,  still  in  the  same  dry 
and  feeble  voice.  '  What  does  it  matter  ?  What  does  anything 
matter? ' 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Although  he  had  often  been 
struck  by  her  violent  alternations  of  mood  and  aj)pearance  he 
did  not  remember  ever  to  have  seen  her  look  so  haggard,  so 
finished,  as  she  looked  this  evening. 

'  You  are  ill,'  he  said  anxiously. 

'No.' 

She  moved  on  the  sofa.  He  saw  a  glint  of  light  on  some 
small  object  which  slipped  from  her  dic^s  and  fell  on  to  the 
floor. 

•  You 've  dropped  something,'  he  said,  bending  down  to  pick 
it  up. 

Suddenly  she  showed  animation.     She  sat  up  quickly. 

'What?' 

She  began  to  feel  in  the  front  of  her  dress. 

'It's  only  a  cigarette-case.     Lut  what  a  beauty.* 
U 


306  FELIX 

'  Give  it  me,'  she  said,  taking,  almost  snatching  it  from  him. 
'You  might  let  me  look  at  it  for  a  minute,'  he  said. 
She  seemed  to  recover  herself. 
'  I  'm  nervous  to-day,'  she  said.     'Here.' 
And  she  held  it  out  to  him,  but  with  a  sort  of  reluctance, 
he  thought. 

'  Why,  how  heavy  it  is,'  he  said,  weighing  it  in  his  hand. 
It  was  made  of  gold  with  a  raised  gold  monogram. 
'  Awfully  heavy,'  he  repeated. 

*  Yes,  really  it  is,  I  scarcely  ever  use  it.' 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  it.     He  gave  it  to  her. 

'  I  keep  it  here,'  she  added. 

She  had  hanging  at  her  side  a  gold  chatelaine,  and  now  she 
fastened  the  cigarette-case  on  to  a  gold  chain. 

'  I  didn't  know  you  had  that,'  he  said. 

'Oh,  I  have  lots  of  idiotic  things.  Every  woman  has,'  she 
answered.     'We  are  all  of  us  babies.' 

*  I  believe  Lady  Caroline  gave  it  you,'  he  said  slowly. 
'  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  ' 

'I  don't  know.     Did  she?' 

*  Yes,  she  did.  She  got  it  in  Berlin.  The  Germans  are  fright- 
fully clever  in  making  things  of  that  kind.' 

Felix  was  silent.  He  did  not  know  why,  but  this  small,  trifling 
incident  made  him  feel  miserable  and  hopeless.  Afterwards  he 
supposed  that  it  was  the  thought  of  Lady  Caroline  which  had 
affected  him.  He  longed  to  tear  the  pretty  gold  case  off  Mrs. 
Ismey's  chatelaine. 

'  I  must  go  now,'  he  said. 

And  he  got  up  and  went.  She  did  not  try  to  keep  him.  That 
night  he  understood  something  of  Mr.  Ismey's  melancholy  and 
even  bitterness.  Mr.  Ismey  had  returned  from  abroad,  and 
Felix  occasionally  met  him,  but  not  very  often.  He  was  much 
occupied  by  his  great  business.  When  they  did  meet,  he  was 
always  very  kind,  but  Felix  was  conscious  of  a  deep  reserve  in 
his  kindness,  and  never  had  the  sensation  of  knowing  what  he 
was  really  like.  Perhaps  it  was  Felix's  imagination,  but  ever 
since  he  had  become  the  great  friend  of  Mrs.  Ismey  he  had 
fancied  a  barrier  rising  between  him  and  her  husband.  This 
was  strange  because  he  was  utterly  free  from  any  sense  of  guilt 
in  his  affection.  His  love  for  Mrs.  Ismey  was  of  such  a  nature 
that  had  her  husband  guessed  it  he  might  well  have  loved  Felix 
for  it.  Felix  did  not  understand  why,  but  there  were  moments 
in  which  he  felt  as  if  Mr.  Ismey,  in  some  surreptitious,  hidden, 
complex  way,  was  the  enemy  of  his  wife.     Mrs.  Ismey  had  never 


FELIX  807 

hinted  that  it  was  so.  At  least  Felix  could  not  remember  that  she 
had.  She  seldom  talked  about  Francis,  and  when  she  did,  it  was 
generally  in  connection  with  Lady  Caroline.  INIr.  Ismey  had 
never  repeated  the  touch  of  unreserve,  almost  of  violence,  which 
had  startled  Felix  in  the  ofifice.  But  Felix  never  forgot  it.  Since 
Mrs.  Ismey  had  told  him  of  her  husband's  hatred  of  Lady 
Caroline,  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  accept  that — if  he  were 
simply  reasonable — as  an  explanation  of  the  incident.  Somehow 
it  did  not  seem  explanation  enough.  That  Mr.  Ismey  was  fond 
of  his  wife  Felix  felt  convinced,  that  he  was  unhappy  in  his  life 
was  plain  to  Felix.  His  eyes  spoke  and  his  whole  expression. 
Yet  Mrs.  Ismey  always  talked  as  if  she  were  fond  of  him.  Was 
Lady  Caroline  the  whole  cause  of  the  unhappiness?  Felix 
began  to  think  of  her,  with  his  usual  imaginative  exaggera- 
tion, as  a  black  figure  scattering  dust  and  ashes  upon  the  hearts 
of  men. 

Yet  he  did  understand,  to  some  extent,  Mr.  Ismey's 
melancholy  and  bitterness,  for  if  he,  only  a  friend,  was  often 
painfully  conscious  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  obsession  by  Lady  Caroline's 
affliction,  which  obsession  seemed,  at  moments,  to  put  her  into 
a  region  where  no  love,  no  sympathy  could  approach  to  affect 
her,  how  far  more  painfully  conscious  of  it  must  a  husband  be. 

The  season  before  Christmas  in  London  is  a  season  of  small 
dinners.  The  Ismeys,  who  knew  an  immense  number  of  the 
clever  and  intellectual  set,  the  set  which  is  interested  in  literary 
affairs,  and  in  all  matters  connected  with  intellectual  progress, 
in  new  ideas,  new  mental  departures — if  there  are  such  depar- 
tures— dined  out  perpetually.  And  sometimes  Mrs.  Ismey, 
when  Felix  found  her  in  one  of  her  depressed  and  exhausted 
moods,  attributed  her  condition  to  e7iiitii  brought  on  by  her 
social  obligations. 

'  One  always  has  to  be  on  the  high  horse,'  she  said  one  day, 
'up  to  the  mark  with  all  these  people.  They  are  so  pre- 
posterously clever  that  they  make  life  a  burden.  I  often  wish 
Francis  were  a  nobody  instead  of  a  great  publisher.  It  bores 
me  to  dine  out  so  much.  I  would  far  rather  go  to  a  music-hall 
with  you.  To  struggle  with  such  a  crowd  of  great  editors, 
authors,  and  critics  is  like  endeavouring  to  negotiate  Niagara  in 
a  pierced  barrel.' 

*  You  are  equal  to  anything  ! '  he  said. 

He  had  a  profound  belief  in  the  quickness  of  her  intellect, 
when  she  was  not  brooding  over  Lady  Caroline's  disordered 
affairs.  Then  she  showed — not  stupidity,  never  that — but  a 
lack  of  continuity  of  mind,  a  lack   of  concentration  and  of 


308  FELIX 

interests  which  were  certainly  trying.  He  wondered  whether 
she  only  allowed  him  to  notice  this  because  he  was  so  intimate 
with  her,  or  whether  other  people,  people  she  met  in  society, 
observed  it  sometimes  too.  If  so,  not  knowing  as  he  did  the 
reason  for  it,  they  must  surely  be  surprised  and  confused  by  it. 

He  had  been  introduced  to  some  of  her  acquaintances, 
but  he  only  knew  them  slightly,  and  he  would  never  have 
dreamed  of  talking  her  over  with  them  even  had  he  known 
them  well. 

In  December,  not  long  before  Christmas,  the  Ismeys  gave  a 
big  reception  after  a  dinner-party.  Felix  was  among  those 
invited  to  the  reception.  When  he  arrived  at  the  house  soon 
after  eleven  he  found  the  drawing-rooms  already  full  of  people, 
some  of  whom  he  was  acquainted  with.  He  saw  King  Marshall, 
with  his  nervous,  small  figure  and  glowing,  melancholy  eyes. 
Lady  Enfield  anxiously  listening  to  clever  talk,  and  smiling  to 
cover  her  lack  of  comprehension  of  it,  Miss  Hartfield,  Mrs. 
Creshet,  the  Italian  woman  who  had  married  an  Englishman, 
and  who  was  the  friend  of  Marza.  The  poet,  and  no  doubt  his 
pretty  companion  also,  had  long  since  left  the  city  of  the 
barbarians.     Felix  had  never  seen  him  again. 

Felix  only  spoke  for  an  instant  to  Mrs.  Ismey,  but  as  she 
took  his  hand  she  whispered  : 

'  You  will  see  Carrie  to-night.' 

She  said  it,  he  fancied,  with  a  sort  of  gay,  almost  childish 
mischief,  and  made  what  he  now  called  her  'squirrel's  face'  at 
him.  She  was  apparently  in  good  spirits.  Felix  was  startled 
by  the  idea  of  meeting  Lady  Caroline,  and  felt  that  it  would 
be  an  event.  But  perhaps  she  would  not  speak  to  him.  He 
wondered.  While  he  was  talking  to  Miss  Hartfield  he  saw  her 
come  in.  She  was  alone  and,  as  always  when  he  had  seen  her, 
was  dressed  in  black.  But  to-night  she  wore  a  quantity  of 
fine  diamonds.  He  forgot  what  he  was  saying  to  Miss  Hartfield 
while  he  looked  at  her.  She  was  in  no  way  changed.  Her 
complexion  was  still  abominable.  Perhaps  in  the  glare  of  the 
many  electric  lights  it  looked  worse  than  usual.  The  strange 
wrinkles  near  her  eyes,  the  deep  dimples  on  each  side  of  her 
mouth,  struck  him  forcibly,  as  when  he  had  first  met  her,  and 
the  contrast  between  her  rather  fat  face  and  her  thin,  almost 
manly  figure.  But  there  was  something  in  her  air,  her  way  of 
moving,  which  he  could  not  help  admiring,  and  more  now  that 
he  saw  her  in  a  smart  crowd.  She  was  perhaps  an  ugly  woman, 
she  might  be  called  a  horrid-looking  woman,  but  she  was  un- 
mistakably a  somebody. 


FELIX  809 

*  You  know  Lady  Caroline  Hurst  ?  '  said  Miss  Hartfield. 

•Yes,'  Felix  answered,  with  an  almost  guilty  start.  'Do 
you? ' 

'  Slightly.' 

He  thought  her  voice  was  suddenly  cold  and  that  her  clear, 
English  face  had  grown  grim. 

'Do  you  like  her?'  Felix  asked. 

Directly  he  had  said  the  words  he  wished  to  recall  them. 
The  question  was  too  blunt.  She  felt  it,  no  doubt,  for  she 
looked  slightly  surprised. 

'  I  know  her  so  very  little,'  she  replied. 

FeHx  was  conscious  that  she  had  answered  his  question.  Mr. 
Ismey  was  speaking  to  Lady  Caroline,  welcoming  her.  What 
an  ironical  situation.  She  stared  at  him  with  her  ruthless, 
light  eyes  as  she  answered  him  without  a  smile.  Felix  thought 
of  her  fighting  her  way  among  the  furies  to  the  threshold  of 
the  room  of  the  morphineuse.  She  fascinated  him.  He  thought 
of  Baron  Hulot.  Was  he  fascinated  by  the  live  woman  as  he  had 
been  by  the  creation  of  Balzac,  and  for  the  same  reason  ?  He 
wondered.  He  was  glad  that  a  diplomatist,  with  a  bald  head 
and  a  discreetly  slight  smile,  spoke  to  Miss  Hartfield  at  this 
moment.  He  wanted  to  be  free  to  watch  Lady  Caroline.  She 
talked  to  several  people,  as  she  made  her  way  further  into  the 
large  drawing-room.  One  of  those  who  addressed  her  was  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest,  a  famous  preacher.  Felix  wondered 
what  he  was  saying.  She  moved  her  chin  upward.  It  was 
very  strange.  She  certainly  looked  a  strong  woman,  strong, 
dominating  in  character.  Although  he  knew  what  she  was  he 
could  not,  as  he  looked  at  her,  believe  in  his  own  knowledge  of 
her.  Presently  she  saw  him  staring  at  her.  He  reddened, 
feeling  guilty.  She  nodded,  continued  to  look  at  him,  and 
almost  immediately  made  him  an  autocratic  sign  to  come  and 
speak  to  her.  He  obeyed,  feeling  half  glad,  half  afraid,  and 
wholly  excited.  When  he  had  edged  his  way  through  the  crowd 
to  her  she  said  : 

'Well,  here  you  are  ;  rejoicing  in  the  mob,  I  suppose  ! ' 

He  murmured  something,  he  hardly  knew  what. 

'  You  've  given  me  up,'  she  continued,  looking  him  full  in 
the  face. 

'  Oh,  I  was  awfully  sorry  not  to '  he  stammered. 

She  interrupted  him. 

'  Nonsense.  You  didn't  want  to  come  and  so  you  refused. 
Very  sensible  of  you.  If  everybody  behaved  like  that — I 
invariably  do — there  'd  be  more  happy  people  in  London  than 


310  FELIX 

there  are.  I  refused  to  come  to-night,  yet  here  I  am.  I 
wanted  to  see  how  Valeria  looked  made  up.' 

Felix  returned  her  fixed  stare  with  a  sudden  boldness.  He 
was  so  angry  that  all  his  confusion  vanislied. 

'What's  the  matter?'  she  said.  'Are  you  going  to  knock 
me  down  ?' 

There  was  a  kind  sound  in  her  voice  which  had  not  been  in 
it  before. 

'I  know  what  it  is,'  she  went  on.  'You  haven't  noticed  that 
she  is  made  up,  and  you  are  going  to  tell  me  I  'm  a  liar.  My 
dear  fellow,  it  isn't  worth  while.  Say  so  to  a  man  if  you  like. 
He'll  believe  you.  Why  shouldn't  she  make  up?  She  looks 
delicious.' 

Felix  followed  her  eyes.  She  had  turned  them  away  from 
him  now.  He  saw  Mrs.  Ismey  at  a  little  distance.  There  was 
a  charming  colour  in  her  cheeks,  not  strong,  not  at  all  artificial- 
looking.  It  was  as  delicate  and  fresh  as  the  hue  in  a  fair  girl's 
face,  one  of  those  bhmdes  with  a  clear,  white  skin,  blue  eyes, 
and  hair  the  shade  of  yellow  that  one  sees  in  a  corn-field. 
Could  it  be  artificial?  He  did  not  remember  that  he  had  ever 
seen  her  look  quite  like  that  before. 

'Now,'  continued  Lady  Caroline,  '  I  'm  going  to  talk  to  some 
one  else.  You  're  hating  me  too  much  to  be  able  to  amuse  me. 
But  my  house  is  still  open  to  you.  Unless  I  hear  from  you  I 
shall  expect  you  to  lunch  on  Sunday  at  two.' 

She  turned  her  back  on  him. 

On  Sunday  at  two  he  vvas  in  Great  Cumberland  Place,  knock- 
ing at  her  door.  He  did  not  know  exactly  why  he  was  there. 
He  had  not  told  Mrs.  Ismey  that  he  was  going,  or  even  that  he 
had  been  asked  to  go.  No  expectation  of  meeting  her  there 
had  brought  him.  Vague  ideas,  vague  defiances,  a  sort  of 
crowd  of  shapeless  thoughts,  intentions,  hopes,  fragmentary, 
wild  ghosts  of  the  mind  led  him,  perhaps.  He  did  not  know. 
But  he  was  there.  While  he  waited  in  the  cold  winter  weather 
on  the  step  before  the  big  door,  which  the  servant  had  not  yet 
opened,  a  strange  idea  flashed  across  his  brain. 

'If  Mr.  Ismey  were  different  from  what  he  is,  less  something 
— reserved,  proud,  sensitive — he  might  be  standing  where  I 
am  now.' 

He  had  seen  Mrs.  Ismey  once  since  her  party,  but  only  for 
a  moment.  Her  face  was  grey,  tormented.  Her  eyes  were  red. 
The  maid,  Alice,  was  with  her  in  the  drawing-room.  When 
Felix  had  been  shown  in  she  had  looked  away  and,  keeping  her 
face  turned  from  lum,  h^d  sa'd  : 


FELIX  311 

'I  did  not  mean  even  you  to  come  in  today.  I  have  a 
horrible  attack  of  neuK;'.L;in.     Please  forj^iAc  nie,  and  go.' 

Her  voice  had  frighten-  d  him,  and  he  bad  left  the  room  with- 
out a  backward  glance.  But,  as  he  stood  on  the  step  of  Lady 
Caroline's  house,  he  remembered  that  moment,  and  the  pro- 
tective instinct  was  very  strong  in  him.  He  did  not  know  what 
he  was  going  to  do,  but  he  felt  like  a  combatant  on  the  eve  of 
a  battle. 

A  man  opened  the  door.  Felix  was  shown  into  the  small 
room  which  was  evidently  Lady  Caroline's  'den.'  She  was 
there  alone,  standing  by  the  fire  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 

'  Hullo  ! '  she  said.     '  Lunch,  Henry  ! ' 

'Yes,  my  lady.' 

She  and  Felix  shook  hands.  As  they  did  so  Felix  thought 
of  the  money  he  had  lent.  How  extraordinary  life  was  !  He 
heard  a  dog  bark  and  started.  It  was  Chicho,  who  peered 
at  him  with  beadlike,  black  eyes  over  the  edge  of  his  basket. 

'  We  are  lunching  alone,'  said  Lady  Caroline.  '  Did  you 
expect  a  party?' 

Felix  did  not  ki  ow  whether  he  had  expected  one  or  not. 
She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  answer. 

'I  thought  of  asking  Valeria,' she  continued.  'And  then  I 
decided  not  to.  Two  women  overwhelm  one  man.  Besides, 
I  want  to  know  you.' 

The  man-servant  reappeared. 

'  Luncheon  is  served,  my  lady.' 

'Come  along,' said  Lady  Caroline.  'We 'Uleave  Chicho  in 
here.' 

Felix  glanced  at  the  little  dog  as  he  followed  her.  Chirho 
was  lying  with  his  black  muzzle  resting  on  the  red,  cushioned 
edge  of  his  basket,  staring  at  the  stranger.  He  did  not  seem  to 
wish  to  follow  them.  Felix  thought  of  the  scene  at  the  house 
of  the  morphinetise  as  he  walked  across  the  hall  behind  Lady 
Caroline,  looking  at  her  tall,  upright  figure.  In  the  dining  room 
there  was  an  electric  bell  let  into  the  floor  by  Lady  Caroline's 
chair.  She  could  press  it  with  her  foot  when  she  wished  to 
summon  the  footman,  who  did  not  stay  in  the  room,  but  came 
in  with  each  course,  handed  it,  and  then  at  once  went  out. 

'  I  object  to  have  a  servant's  mind  communing  incessantly 
with  mine — and  yours,'  Lady  Caroline  said.  'Henry  is  pro- 
bably as  clever  as  cither  you  or  I,  but  his  cleverness  trots  on  a 
different  level.     What  made  you  come  to-day  ?' 

She  stared  at  him  calmly,  and  apjarcntly  without  curiosity, 
from  her  place  immediately  opposite  him. 


312  FELIX 

'  I  don't  know,'  Felix  answered. 

He  did  not  mean  to  be  rude,  he  did  not  even  feel  as  if  he 
were  being  rude.  Her  bluntness  was  so  natural  that  it 
summoned  bluntness  in  him.  The  answer  seemed  to  please 
her. 

'  No  more  do  I,'  she  said.  '  Unless  it 's  because  I  meant  you 
to  come.' 

That  sounded  like  a  challenge. 

'You  used  your  will  to  bring  me?'  Felix  exclaimed. 

Afterwards  he  wondered  why  he  had  been  able  to  behave  as 
he  did  behave  that  day,  but  he  did  not  wonder  when  he  was  in 
the  house. 

'  You  think  my  will  would  be  strong  enough  ?'  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  without  shyness  but,  remembering  all  he 
knew  about  her,  with  a  great  deal  of  wonder. 

'  I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  your  will,'  he  replied. 

It  was  the  exact  truth. 

'Nor  about  me,'  she  said.  'But  do  you  know  what  to  think 
about  any  woman  ?  ' 

'Yes,  I  do.' 

He  thought  of  Mrs.  Ismey,  of  Margot,  of  his  mother. 

'I  don't,'  she  said.  'I  don't  know  what  to  think — we  are 
using  words  loosely — I  don't  know  how  to  know,  that 's  more 
like  it,  any  human  being.  In  the  first  place — it's  a  firstrate 
beginning  to  the  whole  matter — I  am  a  stranger  to  myself.' 

There  she  stopped. 

'  Do,  please,  go  on,'  Felix  said  earnestly. 

Already  she  had  lit  up  all  his  young  mind. 

'About  myself?' 

'Yes.' 

'  You  urge  me  to  what  we  all  adore,  blatant  egoism  ! ' 

He  could  not  help  smiling.     She  was  certainly  refreshing. 

'Well — your  boldness  deserves  its  terrible  reward — this  is 
what  I  guess  about  the  stranger.  The  stranger  is  a  child — or 
rather  a  middle-aged  woman — of  the  age.  She  lives  conse- 
quently for  herself.  She  faces  the  enigma  of  life  without  armour. 
In  warfare  armour  has  gone  out  of  fashion.  Lord  Kitchener 
doesn't  dress  up  in  chain-mail.  No  more  do  I.  (Let 's  drop 
the  affectation  of  the  third  person.)  It 's  diabolically  difficult 
to  be  out  of  the  mental  mode.  I  'm  in  it.  I  wear  no  armour 
of  belief.  I  have  no  religion.  I  live  for  life  here,  life  in  Great 
Cumberland  Place,  life  in  Paris,  not  life  beyond  the  Woking 
Crematorium.     Are  you  horrified  ?' 

'No.' 


FELIX  313 

'Thank — funny,  I  nearly  said  thank  God! — thank  you  for 
your  intelligence.  You  feel  I  'm  just  speaking  the  truth.  And 
the  man  who  is  horrified  at  truth  is  the  greatest  of  all  fools, 
and  unworthy  of  his  manhood.  I  cling  to  no  dream,  but  I 
deny  no  possibility.  I  read  Omar  every  morning  in  bed,  but 
not  to  cry  over  him,  though  he's  the  saddest  man  that  ever 
thought.  I  read  Tolstoy  too.  He  makes  me  cry,  if  you  like. 
And  yet  the  glory  of  his  madness  is  like  the  glory  of  the 
setting  sun.' 

Her  voice  was  musical,  but  her  face  was  like  the  face  of  an 
image.  Why,  how,  did  she  grip  Felix,  move  him  so  strangely 
that,  at  her  last  sentence,  he  felt  tears  rising  in  his  eyes? 

'  I  can't  help  feeling  inclined  to  laugh,'  she  continued,  '  when 
I  see  the  very  young  generation,  not  only  in  Russia,  falling  on 
its  knees  to  worship  a  thing  that  sets.' 

'  But  it 's  the  earth  that ' 

*  H'm !  A  sun  that  allows  itself  to  be  dominated  by  the 
earth ! ' 

Henry  came  in  with  a  fresh  course. 

'  D'  you  like  this  salad  ? '  said  Lady  Caroline. 

'Yes.     It's  delicious.' 

Henry  went  out. 

'  I  live  for  salads,  not  for  eternity,'  she  said.  '  There  you 
have  the  legend  of  my  egoism  and  of  a  million  other  egoisms. 
But  I  live  so  because  it 's  the  only  way  I  can  live.  Free- 
will is  what  schoolboys  call  "a  whopper."' 

'  Don't  you  think  you  do  harm  ?  ' 

'People  ought  to  know  how  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
Would  you  call  upon  a  whale  to  pick  its  way  among  whitebait  ? ' 

Again  the  thought  came  to  Felix  that  Lady  Caroline  was  a 
sort  of  monster.  And  yet  she  seemed  to  him  essentially  unmelo- 
dramatic  and,  somehow,  very  human. 

'That  sounds  conceited,'  she  added.  'But  I  believe  I  am 
conceited.  Again  because  I  'm  a  child  of  the  age.  I  've  told 
you  something  of  what  I  know  about  myself.  It's  a  good  deal 
like  what  I  know  about  the  peoi)le  I  meet,  my  dearest  friends  : 
that  they  go  to  Paquin  or  Whitcley  for  their  clothes  ;  that  they 
have  Roman  or  Grecian,  or — poor  souls  ! — merely  English  noses  ; 
that  they  "attend,"  or  don't  "attend"  church,  and  so  on. 
Myself  is  the  greatest  stranger  to  me  in  all  the  narrow,  narrow 
world.  Now  I'll  stop  boring  you.  Egoism  is,  after  all,  the 
most  deadly  of  the  deadly  sins.  That 's  why  we  cling  to  it.  By 
the  way,  I  was  idiot  enough  to  begin  this  monologue  by  saying 
that  I  wanted  to  know  you  ! ' 


314  FELIX 

A  faint  smile  deepened  the  little  holes  by  her  mouth. 

*  You  make  me  feel  an  awful  fool,'  exclaimed  Felix. 

'Sorry!     Why?' 

'  When  I  was — a  few  months  ago  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  every- 
thing.' 

'  But  don't  you  now?  You  ought  to.  You  're  hardly  of  age, 
I  suppose  ?' 

'  I  shall  be  twenty-one  in  January.' 

'  Far  too  young  to  feel  anything  but  a  learned  Methuselah. 
Valeria  must  have  been  educating  you.' 

The  blood  rushed  to  Felix's  cheeks,  the  old,  silly  feeling  of 
guilt  to  his  heart.  And,  instantly  after  it,  came  a  feeling  of 
anger.  The  shapeless  ghosts,  which  had  floated  about  him 
as  he  stood  on  the  doorstep,  began  to  take  form,  to  emerge 
almost  clearly  out  of  the  void. 

'  Has  she  taught  you  to  think,  for  half  a  second,  that  you 
know  her?'  continued  Lady  Caroline. 

'  I  know  enough  to — to  admire  her  character  very  much,' 
Felix  said. 

'  Well  ?  '  said  Lady  Caroline,  after  a  short  silence. 

But  he  did  not  know  how  to  go  on.  What  could  he  say  of 
all  he  longed  to  say?  He  could  not  tell  Lady  Caroline  what 
Mrs.  Ismey  had  told  him.  And,  without  telling  her,  he  could 
not  draw  a  sword  in  Mrs.  Ismey's  defence.  Yet,  when  he 
remembered  the  misery  in  her  face  which  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  at  the  drawing-room  door,  the  agony  of  mind  which 
he  had  been  witness  of  on  more  than  one  occasion,  he  was 
inclined  to  forget  all  social  hindrances,  all  the  fetters  in  which 
the  'gentlemm'  instinctively  dances — as  a  rule  unconscious  of 
them — and  to  speak  out  what  was  in  his  heart,  passionately, 
furiously  almost. 

'  You  may  ! '  Lady  Caroline  said,  as  the  starter  of  a  race  says 
*Go!' 

'You — you  don't  know  what ' 

He  had  spoken  the  words  very  slowly  and  hesitatingly.  Now 
he  stopped  dead. 

'Let's  clear  the  ground,'  Lady  Caroline  said.  'Valeria's 
been  telling  you  a  lot  about  me  lately.' 

Felix  looked  away  from  her.  He  did  not  know  whether  he 
minded  or  not,  but  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  look  at  her  just 
then. 

'Did  you  suppose  I  didn't  know  it?  Why,  at  first,  you 
took  a  decided  fancy  to  me.  An  invitation  from  me  pleased 
you.     Something  has  changed  all   that.      What?      Of  course 


FELIX  315 

Valeria.  She  s  been  describing  my  supposed  vices.  For 
instance,  she  has  told  you  I  take  morphia.' 

Felix  said  nothing.  He  could  not  speak.  All  this  was  so 
utterly  unexpected  by  him.  He  had  just  time  for  the  thought, 
*  She  's  going  to  deny  it,'  when  she  continued  : 

'  Perfectly  true.  I  do  take  it,  as  I  take  salad.  I  don't  think 
it  necessary — indeed  I  should  think  it  vulgar — to  go  about 
London  informing  people  of  all  my  habits.  But  I  am  not  in 
the  least  ashamed  of  being  fond  of  morphia.    Why  should  I  be  ? ' 

Felix  looked  at  her  again  now.  She  was  gazing  at  him  with 
her  usual  calm  self-possession. 

'  Why  should  I  be  ? '  she  repeated. 

*  I  don't  know,'  he  answered. 

'At  the  same  time  Valeria ' 

'She — she  did  it  from  the  best  motive,'  said  Felix  quickly. 

He  never  thought  of  lying  for  Mrs.  Ismey.  Lady  Caroline 
had  spoken  with  so  much  certainty  that  a  lie  would  have  been 
useless.     And  then  he  was  not  fond  of  lies. 

'Oh.' 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  her  voice,  but  there 
was  some  irony. 

'Really  she  did,'  he  insisted.  'I  don't  know  why,  but  she 
thought — she  hoped ' 

He  stopped.  Sitting  there  with  Lady  Caroline,  his  eyes  upon 
hers,  he  could  not  tell  her  that  Mrs.  Ismey  had  thought  that 
he  might  help  in  some  way.  In  what  way  could  he  help? 
What  influence  could  he  have  with  a  woman  like  Lady  Caroline? 

'What  did  she  hope?' 

Being  rather  desperate  he  became  more  frank. 

'  I  say,'  he  exclaimed,  almost  with  impetuosity,  'since  you've 
spoken  of  it,  let  me  just  tell  you  tliat  I  'm  sure  you  don't,  you 
can't  know  the  harm  you've  done  Mrs.  Ismey.' 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  her  Lady  Caroline's 
face  changed  abruptly  and  became  highly  expressive.  She  looked 
surprised,  more,  utterly  a^^tonished. 

'Valeria  has '  she  began.     She  stopped.     'What  harm?' 

she  asked. 

'  I  don't  believe  you  have  any  idea  how  much  she  cares  for 
you,'  said  Felix. 

'Well,  but  what  harm  ?' 

'  Harm  to  her  mind  and  her  health.' 

The  surprise,  which  had  been  dying  out  of  her  face,  returned 
to  it. 

•Then  she  has  told  you  everything?' 


316  FELIX 

*  Yes — I  don't  mean  about  you,  but  about  herself.' 

'About  herself!  How  strangely  frank.  And  what  do  you 
think  of  it?' 

She  looked  at  him  with  open  curiosity. 

'  I  think  that,  for  her  sake,  you  might — it  would  be  most 
awfully  good  of  you  to  drop  it,'  he  said  boldly. 

He  was  thinking  only  of  Mrs.  Ismey  now.  Lady  Caroline 
had  offered  him  a  chance  of  helping  the  woman  he  loved.  He 
could  not  be  such  a  coward  as  not  to  avail  himself  of  it,  defying 
conventions. 

'Drop  it?  drop  morphia  !* 

'Yes.' 

'  But  what  earthly  good  would  that  do  to  Valeria  now  ? ' 

'  Why,  every  good.  Surely,  surely  you  must  know,  you  must 
see  how  it's  ruining  her  life,  her  happiness,  even  her  health.' 

'  What  ? ' 

'Your  taking  morphia.' 

'  My  taking  morphia  ! ' 

'  Yes.  Oh,  but  I  see  that  you  don't  understand  in  the  least 
how  much  she  cares  for  you.  Perhaps  she  conceals  it  from  you, 
but  she  has  let  me  know  it.' 

'  Look  here,'  said  Lady  Caroline,  with  sledge-hammer  blunt- 
ness,  'just  explain  to  me  what  Valeria  has  let  you  know. 
Possibly  I  'm  in  the  dark.     I  begin  to  think  I  am.' 

'  She  has  let  me  know  that  your  taking  morphia  preys  upon 
her  mind  to  such  an  extent  that  it  is  ruining  her  whole  life,'  said 
Felix,  with  responsive  bluntness. 

There  was  something  in  Lady  Caroline,  something  manly, 
which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  speak  to  her  now  as  he  might 
have  spoken  to  a  man. 

'And  that  is  all  she  has  told  you?' 

'  Yes,  of  course  with  some  details ' 

*0h,  trust  a  woman  to  go  into  details !'  she  said,  again  with  irony. 

'  But  that 's  what  it  comes  to.  O  Lady  Caroline,  I  haven't 
the  least  right — not  a  shadow  of  a  right,  I  know — to  say  a  single 
word  to  you  on  my  own  account.  I  would  never  dare.  But  if 
any  one  loves  you,  don't  you  think  that  fact  makes  you  owe  them 
something?  If  only  you'd  give  that  up  she — Mrs.  Ismey — 
would  be  a  different  woman.' 

She  was  quite  silent  and  sat  motionless,  looking  at  him  with 
her  intent,  light  eyes,  from  which  the  little  lines  drooped 
towards  her  almost  livid  cheeks. 

'  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  how  she 's  suffered  1 '  he  exclaimed, 
goaded  by  her  silence.     '  You  know  what  she  did  in  Paris.' 


FELIX  817 

'What  did  she  do?' 

Still  there  was  irony  in  her  voice. 

'  When  she  went  to  that  house  to  get  you  to  come  away  from 
the  77iorphineuse.     Think  of  her  in  such  a  place  ! ' 

All  the  love  of  the  boy  was  up  in  arms  now.  The  protective 
instinct  broke  loose  and  ran  into  the  light. 

*  Ah,  she 's  told  you  of  that  too  ! ' 

*  She  trusts  me,'  he  said,  as  if  that  were  a  full  answer  to  all. 
'She  trusts  you,'  repeated  Lady  Caroline. 

Surely  there  was  pity  in  her  voice  when  she  said  that.  Felix 
even  thought  that  there  was  pity  in  the  eyes  that  were  still  gazing 
at  him  so  steadily.     Pity  !     What  did  she  mean  by  it  ? 

'You  don't  believe  it !  You  think  I'm  too  young!'  he 
exclaimed. 

'I  think  a  woman  would  do  very  well  to  trust  you,' she  replied 
quietly.     'Very  well  indeed.     You  don't  want  anything  more?' 

'  More?'  he  said. 

'  To  eat  ?     To  drink  ? ' 

*0h.     No  thanks.' 

'Let's  come  into  my  room,  then.' 

She  got  up  and  led  the  way.  In  the  hall  the  footman  met 
them. 

'  Mrs.  Bertold  is  in  the  drawing-room,  my  lady.' 

'Oh.' 

She  turned  to  Felix. 

'  We  must  go  up  there,  then,'  she  said. 

But  Felix  felt  that  he  could  not  face  the  petrifying  inanity  of 
the  woman  with  the  pepper-and-salt  hair. 

'I— d'you  mind  if— I  think  I  ought  to  be  going,'  he  stam- 
mered. 

'Good-bye,' she  said. 

She  grasped  his  hand,  very  cordially  it  seemed  to  him.  Then, 
while  he  went  to  look  for  his  hat  and  coat,  she  walked  up  the 
broad  staircase. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

FELIX  did  not  see  Mrs.  Ismey  again  before  Christmas. 
She  was  taken  ill.  She  wrote  to  him  from  her  bed  that 
she  had  caught  a  severe  chill,  and  that  the  doctor  had  ordered 
her  not  to  leave  her  room  for  several  days.  The  note  was  very 
short.  He  guessed  at  most  of  the  words.  For  a  moment  he 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  relief.  When  he  was  at  Lady 
Caroline's,  confronted  with  her  imperturbable  bluntness,  he  had 
bc'cn  impelled  to  speak  the  truth.  She— he  told  himself  after- 
wards— was  almost  indecently  free  from  subterfuge.  There  was 
something  savage  even  in  her  virtue.  And  so  there  had,  per- 
haps, been  some  thoughtless  haste  in  this.  When  he  considered 
what  he  had  done  he  began  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not 
betrayed  Mrs.  Ismey's  confidence.  Perhaps  she  would  be 
angry  with  him,  would  feel  that  she  could  not  trust  him  any 
more.  The  anxiety  he  underwent  made  him  begin  to  realise 
more  fully  the  strength  of  his  affection  for  her.  All  that  was  in 
him,  all  himself,  seemed  dependent  upon  her.  There  was  some- 
thing terrible  in  that  fact.  He  dreaded,  while  he  longed  for, 
their  next  interview.  Her  illness  postponed  it  indefinitely.  For 
the  chill  did  not  pass  away  quickly.  Christmas  Day  drew  near 
and  she  had  not  been  able  to  come  downstairs.  He  got  another 
smeared  note  from  her  :  '  I  'm  horribly  ill.  V.'  It  came  on  the 
seventeenth  of  December.  The  weather  was  black  and  grim. 
He  breakfasted  with  the  electric  light  turned  on,  and  felt  as  if 
he  read  her  scrawl  by  night.  His  heart  stood  still.  What  did 
she  mean  ?  Was  there  any  danger?  When  he  called  to  inquire 
the  man-servant  told  him  that  she  would  have  to  '  keep  her  bed ' 
for  some  time. 

'But — but  is  there  any  danger?'  he  asked,  trying  in  vain  to 
read  the  imperturbable,  pale  face  that  looked  so  unmeaning. 
'  I  couldn't  say,  sir.  There  's  two  doctors  comes  every  day.' 
Felix  stood  there  for  a  moment.  He  could  not  go  in.  He 
felt  as  if  he  could  not  go  away.  The  footman  remained  in 
polite  silence  in  the  doorway,  like  a  statue,  immobile,  without 
expression. 

818 


FELIX  SI  9 

*I  suppose  Lady  Caroline  Hurst  has  seen  her?*  Felix  said  at 
length. 

i-  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  get  the  full  information  his 
heart  cried  out  for  through  her. 

'  Her  ladyship  has  not  been,  sir.' 

•Not  at  all?' 

•No,  sir.     Not  at  all.' 

Felix  turned  away.  It  struck  him  as  most  extraordinary  that 
Lady  Caroline  should  not  have  called.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  he  had  lunched  in  Cumberland  Place.  Nor  did  he  see 
her  before  Christmas.  But  he  met  Mr.  Ismey  late  one  after- 
noon in  Piccadilly  and  stopped  him. 

'  Ah,  Wilding,'  Mr.  Ismey  said,  '  how  are  you  going  on  ?  ' 

•  Quite  well,  thanks,'  Felix  answered.  '  But — I  say,  I  hope 
Mrs.  Ismey  is  better?' 

Again  he  saw  the  look  of  concentrated  bitterness,  which  had 
startled  him  in  the  office,  come  into  Mr.  Ismey's  face.  It  was 
as  if  a  mask  were  torn  oif  from  features  distorted  not  only  by 
grief,  but  by  something  more  horrible  than  grief,  anger,  a  sort  of 
dreary  rage.     It  passed  away  almost  at  once. 

'  My  wife  is  suffering  a  good  deal,'  he  said.  *  I'm  afraid  she 
may  have  to  be  worse  before  she  is  better.' 

They  said  good-bye  and  Felix  walked  on. 

•  Worse  before  she  is  better.'  It  was  a  commonplace  phrase, 
one  often  used  in  connection  with  illness.  Why  had  it  sounded 
so  cruel  as  it  came  from  Mr.  Ismey's  lips?  A  sense  of  horror 
struck  through  Felix's  heart.  Wild,  absurd  ideas  came  into  his 
brain,  that  they  were  doing  something  to  Mrs.  Ismey,  that  her 
illness  had  been  artificially  created,  that  they  were  torturing  her 

in  some  way,  that He  knew  he  was  unstrung,  and  tried  to 

stop  his  imagination,  but  he  was  haunted  by  fears.  Thougli 
they  were  formless,  perhaps  because  they  were  formless,  they 
were  terrible.  Just  before  Christmas  he  inquired  again  in 
Green  Street. 

'  Mrs.  Ismey  is  very  bad,  sir,'  said  the  footman  calmly. 

With  that  sentence  stamped  on  his  heart  Felix  had  to  go  home 
to  spend  the  '  genial  season  '  at  Churston  Waters.  He  would 
rather  have  spent  it  alone  in  London,  but  he  felt  that  he  must  go 
home,  that  his  mother  would  be  cut  to  the  heart  if  he  did  not. 
Since  he  had  come  to  live  in  town  he  had  only  been  home  once 
for  two  nights.  In  his  mother's  last  letter  she  had  written  :  'I 
suppose  I  shall  see  you  at  Christmas  ?  '  Even  in  the  preoccupa- 
tion of  his  grief  and  fear  for  Mrs.  Ismey,  Felix  had  been  conscious 
of  some  at  least  of  the  loving  anxiety  which  lurked  behind  that 


320  FELIX 

phrase.  Yes,  he  must  go  down  to  Churston  Waters  for  Christ- 
mas. He  wrote  that  of  course  he  was  coming,  and  he  went. 
He  took  presents  with  him,  bought  hastily  at  the  last  moment, 
for  his  mother,  Margot,  and  Stephen.  Having  delayed  going 
till  further  delay  was  impossible,  he  arrived  on  Christmas  Eve. 
The  weather  was  dreary.  Rain  fell  steadily  from  a  sky  covered 
with  leaden  clouds.  The  air  was  full  of  a  cold  dampness  that 
seemed  charged  with  maladies  like  the  casket  of  Pandora. 
Railway  traffic  was  disorganised,  and  the  train  by  which  Felix 
travelled  was  an  hour  late.  He  found  the  carriage  waiting  for 
him.  The  coachman  handed  him  from  the  box  a  little  note. 
He  read  it,  holding  it  against  the  carriage  lamp. 

'Welcome.  I  wanted  so  to  come  and  meet  you,  but  I  am  not 
feeling  very  well,  and  cannot  venture  out  in  this  weather  for  fear 
of  taking  a  fresh  cold  and  not  being  able  to  go  to  church  with 
you  to-morrow.     Love. — Mother.' 

He  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  shut  up  his  umbrella,  and  got 
into  the  carriage.  '  Not  feeling  very  well — fear  of  taking  a  fresh 
cold.'  It  was  pretty  obvious  to  Felix  that  his  mother  was  fast 
developing  into  a  hypochondriac.  These  vague  phrases  showed 
it,  this  anticipation  of  possible  illness.  She  was  always  looking 
forward  to  physical  calamity,  always  not  doing  something  'for 
far  of  a  possible  bodily  result  of  an  unpleasant  kind.  Rather 
f-eble  and  cowardly  that.  A  real,  terrible  illness,  such  as  Mrs. 
Ismey's,  was  a  very  different  matter.  His  whole  being  went  out 
in  sympathy  to  her,  but  his  mother's  little  colds  and  incessant 
precautions  irritated  him.  He  resolved  to  beg  her,  in  schoolboy 
phrase,  to  '  buck  up,'  to  show  some  courage.  That  was  what 
she  was  wanting  in — courage.  Women  often  became  confirmed 
invalids  from  brooding  over  their  health,  and  incessantly 
coddling  themselves. 

As  he  drove  on  he  saw  Frankton  Wells  blurred  by  the 
heavily  falling  rain.  The  shops  were  brilliantly  lit  up.  Those 
occupied  by  butchers,  with  open  fronts,  displayed  gigantic 
joints  of  meat  decorated  with  sprigs  of  holly,  and  bearing 
placards  announcing  that  they  were  cut  from  '  Prime '  oxen. 
In  the  poulterers'  windows  squadrons  of  turkeys  attracted  the 
gaping  attention  of  multitudes  of  soaked  rustics,  who  had 
tramped  in  from  the  country  districts  to  buy  such  '  Christmas 
Fare'  as  the  condition  of  their  finances  would  allow.  Upun 
the  glistening  pavements  of  the  old-fashioned  streets  anxious 
women,  swat^hed  in  unfashionable  waterproofs,  scurried  by, 
protected  by  umbrellas,  and  carrying  strings  of  parcels  covered 


FELIX  321 

with  brown  paper,  discoloured  and  spotted  here  and  there  by 
the  raindrops.  Many  of  them  were  accompanied  by  excited 
children,  whose  youthful  ardour,  wrought  to  fever-heat  by  the 
nearness  of  the  approaching  festival,  rose  triumphant  over  the 
depressing  influences  of  the  villainous  evening  hour. 

Felix  remembered  very  well  his  own  childish  pleasure  in 
bygone  Christmases,  and  wondered  at  his  vanished  self.  To- 
night, the  lighted  shops,  the  mighty  joints,  the  holly,  the 
placards,  the  scurrying  wet  crowds  intent  on  present-buying, 
all  seemed  to  combine  deliberr.tely  in  an  effort  to  create  a  false 
atmosphere  of  artificial  geniality,  artificial  goodwill.  Even  the 
wet,  blank  darkness  of  the  country  was  less  depressing  than 
the  meretricious  bustle  of  the  country  town.  He  thought  of 
the  morrow  with  its  services,  the  decorated  church,  the  greetings 
of  the  neighbours,  the  Christmas  dinner  with  its  blazing  plum- 
pudding  and  possibly  crackers  at  dessert.  Well,  he  would 
have  to  get  through  it  somehow.  It  would  pass.  The  moment 
must  inevitably  come  when  it  would  all  be  over,  and  he  would 
be  free  to  get  back  to  London,  free  to  go  to  her  door  and  gkan 
some  scanty  news  of  her  condition. 

Suppose  she  were  to  be  dead  !  He  had  never  thought  of 
that  before.  With  that  thought  came  Hill  House,  his  mother's 
affectionate  greeting  in  the  holly-bedecked  hall,  the  servants' 
'The  compliments  of  the  season  to  you,  sir!'  his  bedroom  with 
more  holly.  Life  has  some  dreadful  moments,  some  dreadful 
decorated  moments. 

After  that  Christmas  was  over  Felix  often  wondered  what 
must  have  been  the  exact  impression  created  by  him  on  the 
people  he  met.  He  must  surely  have  seemed  a  little  mad  to 
them  all  :  to  the  elderly  clergyman,  the  village  doctor  and  his 
sprightly  wife,  who  was  always  perky  even  if  she  were  only 
saying  thnt  there  was  'a  good  deal  of  bronchitis  going  about'; 
Miss  Crooks,  the  authoritative  spinster  who  had  'had  charge' 
of  the  chancel  decorations  of  the  church  since  the  beginning  of 
time,  and  who  would  brook  no  word  of  advice  on  her  'scheme' 
even  from  the  rector  himself;  the  village  schoolmaster,  the 
organist,  all  the  good  creatures — that  was  what  Felix  mentally 
called  them — who  had  known  him,  and  whom  he  had  known, 
since  he  was  a  small  boy  in  the  days  of  buttonholes  and  bead 
rings.  His  profound  depression  must  have  amazed  their 
determined  seasonable  geniality.  No  doubt  he  had  struggled 
against  it,  but  he  felt  sure  that  the  struggle  had  been  in  vain. 
Tlie  bitter  mockery  of  Christmas  to  him  must  liavc  been 
guessed  at  by  them,  secretly  denounced  by  them  perhaps  as 

X 


322  FELIX 

profane,  irreligious.  Irreligious !  Yes,  he  supposed  he  was 
that.  Whether  owing  to  London  influences,  to  Marza's  bold 
paganism,  Mrs.  Ismey's  complete  ignoring  of  religious  subjects, 
Lady  Caroline's  calm  agnosticism  and  lack  of  all  faith  in  a 
'  life  beyond  the  Woking  Crematorium,'  or  to  some  mysterious, 
and  perhaps  brief,  change  in  himself  independent  of  those  with 
whom  he  had  been  recently  thrown,  Felix  was  struck  this 
Christmas  with  overpowering  force  by  the  emptiness,  the  un- 
meaningness  of  praise  and  worship.  The  religion  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  up,  instead  of  helping  him  out  of  his 
melancholy,  thrust  him  deeper  down  in  his  gulf  of  despair. 

He  got  up  early,  and  went  before  breakfast  with  his  mother 
to  the  "first  celebration.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  ground 
was  soaking  wet,  and  a  white  mist  hung  above  the  graves  in  the 
churchyard.  After  the  service  was  over  his  mother,  who  was 
very  much  wrapped  up,  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice  : 

*  I  thought  we  would  just  go  for  a  minute  together  to ' 

Her  voice  failed.  She  gave  a  slight  cough.  They  went  out 
to  the  corner  in  which  his  father  had  been  buried  beneath  an 
old  yew-tree.  A  wreath  of  hothouse  flowers  had  been  placed 
at  the  head  of  the  grave,  evidently  that  morning.  They  were 
perfectly  fresh.  Felix  <iid  not  know  that  his  mother  hid  been 
out  before  the  pale  dawn  had  fully  broken  to  lay  them  there. 
He  stood  with  her  for  a  minute  or  two  looking  at  them,  and  at 
the  plain  granite  cross  on  which  they  rested.  He  glanced 
sideways  at  his  mother.  Her  lips  were  moving,  and  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  He  knew  that  she  was  praying,  and  for  a 
moment  he  thought  of  uttering  a  prayer  for  Mrs.  Ismey.  But 
somehow  the  idea  seemed  ridiculous.  What  was  the  good  of 
prayer?  His  mother  prayed,  but  did  she  think?  Marza  was  a 
thinker.  Felix  felt  sure  he  never  prayed.  At  breakfast  his 
mother  talked  cheerfully.  The  giving  of  presents  was  to  take 
place  in  the  evening  when,  of  course,  IMargot  and  Stephen  were 
coming  over  to  dinner.  Felix  got  through  the  day  somehow. 
He  heard  the  Hallelujahs,  in  which  the  shrill  voices  of  the 
school  children  were  piercingly  audible.  He  received  and 
returned  the  Merry  Christmases  of  the  neighbours.  He  forced 
himsflf  to  smile.  And  he  felt  as  if  there  were  an  iron  band 
round  his  heart.  His  sorrow,  his  anxiety,  and  his  new  lack  of 
all  vestige  of  rehgious  feeling  set  him  more  utterly  apart  from 
his  mother  than  ever  before.  He  honestly  tried  to  draw  near 
to  her,  conscious  tnat  the  day  must  be  a  sad  one  for  her, 
although,  since  that  brief  moment  by  the  graveside,  she  had 
seemed  calm  and  cheerful  in  her  always  quiet  way.     But  the 


FELIX  323 

effort  was  useless.  He  kept  renieinhcring  those  words  of  hers, 
spoken  during  his  last  visit:  'Felix,  now  that  you  are  alone  in 
London,  I  hope  you  will  be  very  careful  with — with  women.' 
If  she  knew  what  was  in  his  heart,  the  flame,  what  would  she 
think  ?  How  would  she  feel  about  it  ?  Even  if  he  explained — 
if  he  could  ever  bring  himself  even  to  try  to  explain — the  p;:rity 
in  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  for  Mrs.  Ismey,  his  mother  would 
not  understand.  He  said  so  to  himself.  She  would  be  shot  ked. 
She  would  say  that  Mrs.  Ismey  was  a  mairied  woman,  that  such 
an  affection  could  only  be  dangerous,  that  though  it  might  not 
seem  so  now,  in  time  it  would  prove  to  be  so ;  it  would  lead 

him  on,  it  would Oh,  he  knew  all  she  would  think  and 

say.  Her  religious  prejudices  would  rise  up — like  weeds,  he 
tiiought.  How  far  away  he  was  from  her  since  the  flame  had 
found  the  way  to  his  heart ! 

There  was  no  difference,  no  slightest  quarrel,  no  unkind  word 
belween  them  that  day,  but  there  was — what?  Space  like  the 
space  of  a  great  desert  that  never  has  been,  that  never  can  be, 
traversed  by  anything  that  lives.  He  saw  that  space,  as  a 
traveller  who  looks  out  upon  a  waste  of  the  Sahara,  and  can 
see  no  green  shadow  of  an  oasis  in  the  distance  of  the  sands. 
Did  she  see  it?     He  told  himself  that  of  course  she  did  not. 

He  always  knew  what  the  few  transparent  souls  were  feeling, 
although  he  migiit  be  in  the  dark  about  the  rest  of  the  world. 

In  the  evening  there  was  the  Christmas  dinner.  There  were 
crackers  at  dessert.  When  two  or  three  of  them  had  been 
pulled  the  presents  were  given.  Stephen  gave  Felix  a  volume 
of  Wor^isworth's  poetry.  Mar^^ot  gave  him  a  walking-stick,  his 
mother  a  very  fine  reproduction  of  Watts'  'Love  and  Death.' 
When  Felix  had  taken  it  out  of  the  wrappings  in  which  it  was 
carefully  enveloped,  and  saw  what  it  was,  and  realised  all  it 
meant  for  him  that  ni^^ht,  he  had  great  difficulty  in  preserving 
an  appearance  of  outward  calm. 

'  I  thought  you  might  hang  it  on  your  wall  in  London,'  his 
mother  said.  'I  have  always  been  very  fond  of  it,  and  so  was 
your  father.' 

'Thanks  very  much,  mater,'  he  replied.  'It  is  very  fine.' 
He  set  it  down  with  a  rather  trem])ling  hand  on  the  dining-room 
floor  leaning  against  the  wall.  But,  before  he  went  to  bed,  he 
returned  to  the  dining-room  to  take  it  upstairs  with  him.  The 
evening  passed  away  without  any  special  incident  until  it  was 
nearly  time  for  Margot  and  Stephen  to  go  home.  Then  Margot 
said  to  her  brother: 

'Oh,    Felix,   we    heard    this   morning    that    Mrs.    Ismey  is 


324  FELIX 

seriously  ill.  Did  you  know  it?  Mr.  Ismey  wrote  it  to 
Stephen  in  his  Christmas  letter.' 

The  blood  rushed  to  Felix's  face.  He  wondered  if  he  would 
ever  conquer  that  hideous,  degrading  habit  of  blushing. 

'I — I  knew  she  had  been  unwell,'  he  said. 

His  face  grew  hotter  and  hotter  till  he  felt  as  if  he  were  on 
fire,  and  he  went  on  speaking  hastily,  as  if  words  would  form 
a  sort  of  veil  to  cover  his  misery  and  agitation. 

*  I  haven't  seen  her  for  some  time.  She  hasn't  been  out,  I 
believe.  You  see,  the  weather  in  London  has  been  so  awful. 
It  started  with  a  chill,  didn't  it?' 

He  looked  at  Stephen.  He  was  torn  by  the  longing  to  ask 
exactly  what  was  in  Mr.  Ismey's  letter. 

*  A  chill?'  said  Stephen. 

Felix  thought  his  brother-in-law's  voice  sounded  unusually 
grim  and  odd,  in  some  furtive,  some  secret  way,  as  if  he  wished 
and  intended  it  to  be  ordinary,  but  was  governed,  prompted,  in 
spite  of  himself,  to  hint  at  some  feeling  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  conceal. 

'Yes,  a  chill.  I  know  it  started  with  that.  Perhaps  it  has 
developed — has  it  developed  into  something  else?' 

'  Mr.  Ismey  didn't  say  exactly  what  was  the  matter.  Did 
he,  Stephen?'  said  Margot,  with  a  well-meaning  assumption 
of  interest  which  did  not  hide  real  and  perfectly  natural 
indifference. 

Stephen  hesitated  to  reply.  That  was  obvious.  A  ghastly 
idea  came  into  Felix's  mind  that  Mrs.  Ismey  was  dying,  and 
that  Stephen  did  not  like  to  say  so.  He  remembered  that 
Mr.  Ismey  and  Stephen  had  been  brought  up  together,  that 
there  was  a  strong  link  of  affection  between  them.  What  more 
natural  than  that,  in  his  trouble,  Mr.  Ismey  should  have  made 
Stephen  his  confidant?  Suddenly  Felix  felt  a  profound  interest 
in  his  brother-in-law.     But  how  could  he  dare  to  show  it? 

'Francis  said  nothing  about  a  chill,'  Stephen  answered  at 
last. 

His  voice  was  odd,  constrained.  Even  Mrs.  Wilding  noticed 
it.     She  glanced  from  him  to  Felix. 

'  I  am  very  sorry,'  she  said.  '  It  is  specially  sad  at  Christmas- 
time.' 

'  I  don't  see  why,'  exclaimed  Felix. 

He  spoke  almost  fiercely.  Every  one  looked  startled,  as  if  he 
had  said  something  dreadfully  heartless. 

'  I  mean,'  he  explained,  trying  to  control  the  agitation  which 
had  burst  forth  in  spite  of  himself  in  his  last  remark,  '  that  it 


FELIX  825 

seems  to  me  the  illness  of  anybody  one  cares  for  is  equally  sad 
at  any  time  of  the  year.  But  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Ismey  will  be  all 
right  again  soon.' 

He  said  it  as  a  statement,  not  as  a  question,  but  he  looked 
at  Stephen  with  narrow,  piercing  anxiety.  Stephen  said  nothing. 
He  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  his  long 
clerical  coat  drooping  towards  the  carpet.  On  his  red  face  there 
was  surely  a  stern  expression.  He  had  not  expressed  any 
sorrow  at  Mrs.  Ismey's  illness.  Again  Felix  thought  of  Mr. 
Ismey's  remark,  '  I  'm  afraid  she  may  have  to  be  worse  before 
she  is  better,'  and  of  his  wild  fears  for  Mrs.  Ismey.  As  he  stared 
at  Stephen  they  returned.  There  was  something  mysterious 
about  this  illness,  something  that  had  to  be  hidden,  something 
cruel.     And  Stephen  knew  what  it  was. 

The  butler  entered  to  say  that  the  fly  had  come  for  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bosanfield.  Margot  got  up.  As  she  did  so,  despite  his 
desperate  preoccupation,  it  occurred  to  Felix  that,  since  he  had 
last  seen  her,  she  was  altered  in  some  way.  She  looked  different. 
She  said  good-bye. 

'  Take  great  care  of  yourself,  dearest  mother,'  she  said,  as  she 
kissed  Mrs.  Wilding. 

Felix  very  nearly  interposed  with  his  lecture  against  coddling 
and  being  hypochondriacal,  but  he  restrained  himself.  He 
would  speak  to  his  mother  about  that  on  the  morrow.  He 
followed  his  sister  and  brother-in-law  into  the  hall,  put  Margot's 
cloak  round  her,  and  then  went  to  help  Stephen  with  his  large, 
black  garment,  which  was  batlike  and  voluminous.  A  desperate 
desire  haunted  him  to  get  a  word  alone  with  his  brotherin-law. 
But  even  if  he  did,  what  could  he  say?  He  could  not  ask  to 
be  told  all  that  was  in  a  private  letter. 

'  Good-bye,' said  Stephen,  placing  his  soft  hat  firnily  on  his 
head,  and  pulling  the  brim  down  till  it  almost  touched  his  bushy 
eyebrows.     'Won't  you  ride  over  to  see  us  to-morrow?' 

'  Oh  yes,  do,  E'elix  ! '  said  Margot  eagerly.  *  You  haven't  been 
for  so  long.' 

'Bring  the  mother,'  added  Stephen.  *I  know  she  will  not 
want  to  be  separated  from  you  more  than  she  can  help.  Come 
to  luncheon  or  tea.' 

'Thanks  very  much  ;  I  will  certainly.' 

Felix  spoke  quite  as  eagerly  as  Margot.  The  morrow  might 
bring  him  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Stephen  alone,  of 
getting  somehow — he  had  no  idea  how — to  the  bottom  of  this 
mystery. 

On  Boxing  Day  the  weather  was  again  deplorable.     The  rain 


326  FELIX 

had  returned.      It  was  falling    steadily  before  breakfast,  and 
continued  to  fall  steadily  all  the  morning. 

'  I  am  grieved  that  you  can't  get  out,'  said  Mrs.  Wilding. 
'It  is  very  dull  for  you.' 

'  Oh  no,  mater.  Besides,  we  are  going  over  to  see  Margot 
this  afternoon.     That  will  be  something  to  do.' 

On  the  previous  night  he  had  told  his  mother  of  the  invitation. 

'Don't  you  think  you  had  better  put  it  off  till  to-morrow?' 
said  Mrs.  Wilding. 

'  But  I  'm  going  back  to  town  to-morrow.' 

'Oh,  I  see,'  she  said. 

He  stole  a  glance  at  her.  She  was  not  looking  at  him  but 
at  the  fire. 

'Well,  then,  you  must  go  to-day,  I  suppose.* 

'You'll  come  too.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  dare.' 

'  Why  not  ?  ' 

'  It  's  so  wet.' 

'Now,  mater,  what  does  that  matter  in  a  shut  brougham?' 

'  It  is  the  getting  in  and  out  I  am  afraid  of.' 

Felix  felt  acutely  irritated.  His  painful  anxiety  for  Mrs. 
Ismey,  which  had  an  edge  put  to  it  by  this  day  of  forced  inaction, 
this  day  in  which  the  dreary  hours  crawled  by  like  things  heavy 
with  age,  turned  him  easily  to  anger.  In  thought  he  compared 
Mrs.  Ismey's  perhaps  desperate  condition  with  his  mother's 
perfectly  normal  health ;  his  fears  for  Mrs.  Ismey  with  his 
mother's  fears  for  herself. 

'Afraid  of!'  he  exclaimed.  'Really,  mater,  I  can't  under- 
stand you.  It  is  odd  that  religious  people  should  always  be 
trembling  at  the  idea  of  the  smallest  illness,  much  more  of 
death.  What  on  earth  is  the  good  of  having  any  belief  at  all 
if  it  can't  prevent  you  from  being  such  an  awful  coward?  I 
wonder  what  you  'd  be  like  if  you  were  ever  really  ill ! ' 

'  As  she  is,'  he  added  mentally. 

'Perhaps  I  am  a  coward,' she  answered  gently.  'But  I  do 
take  cold  very  easily,  and ' 

'Cold!  But  what  does  a  little  cold  matter?  The  fact  is, 
mater,  that  now  you're  here  all  alone  you  do  nothing  but  sit 
over  the  fire  and  think  about  yourself,  whether  you've  got 
rh's  and  whether  you've  got  that.  If  you  so  much  as  sneeze 
you  fancy  you  're  going  to  die  to-morrow.  You  should  go  out. 
You  should  occupy  yourself.  There  are  enough  complaints 
in  the  world  as  it  is  without  bringing  on  imaginary  ones  by 
brooding.* 


FELIX  327 

She  said  nothing.     Her  silence  irritated  him  still  more. 

'Don't  you  see  I'm  right?  Don't  you  agree  with  me?'  he 
said. 

'  I  dare  say  sometimes  we  do  think  too  much  about  ourselves,' 
she  answered. 

'  I  am  sure  you  do,'  he  said. 

In  the  afternoon  at  half-past  three  she  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  her  cloak  on,  and  her  icewool  shawl  wrapped  round 
her  throat. 

'Oh,  you're  coming!'  he  said. 

'  Yes.' 

'  That 's  right.  If  you  had  me  here  always  to  order  you 
about  you  'd  soon  be  in  firstrate  health.     It 's  all  imagination.' 

His  utter  helplessness  in  one  direction  made  him  glad  to  feel 
his  power  in  another.  If  he  knew  nothing  rightly  about  Mrs. 
Ismey's  terrible  condition,  at  any  rate  he  knew  all  about  his 
mother's  fanciful  complaints,  and  could  prescribe  for  her. 

They  drove  through  the  rain  to  the  rectory  at  Frankton  Wells. 
Margot,  who  was  in  the  drawing-room  when  they  arrived,  seemed 
very  much  surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Wilding. 

'Oh,  mother,  I  never  thought  you  'd  venture,'  she  said. 

'Why  not,  Margot?'  said  Felix.  'You  mustn't  encourage 
mater.  I  've  been  telling  her  she  's  developing  into  a  regular 
hypochondriac.  She  does  nothing  but  sit  over  the  fire  and 
wonder  when  she's  going  to  die.     It's  absurd.' 

'  But,  Felix '  Margot  began. 

Just  then  Stephen  came  in.  Tea  followed.  All  the  time 
they  were  talking  about  little  family,  parish,  and  country  a(Tairs 
Felix  was  burning  with  impatience  to  be  alone  with  Stephen. 
He  stole  glances  at  his  brother-in-law's  well-meaning  groom's 
face,  and  thought  how  strange,  how  atrocious  it  was  that  Stephen, 
who  cared  nothing  for  Mrs.  Ismey,  who  even  probably  disliked 
and  disapproved  of  her,  should  know  the  secret  of  her  condition. 
It  began  almost  to  seem  to  Felix  as  if  Mr.  Ismey  and  Stejihen 
were  conspirators,  as  if  Mrs.  Ismey  were  a  victim  in  their  hands. 
As  the  visit  drew  towards  an  end  he  grew  more  and  more 
excited,  more  and  more  anxious  to  be  left  alone  with  Stephen. 
He  was  thankful  when  Margot  asked  her  mother  to  come  into 
the  next  room  with  her  for  a  minute. 

'  I  want  to  show  you  some  work  I  've  been  doing  since  you 
were  here,  mother  dearest,'  she  said. 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Wilding.  There  was  a  flush 
on  her  face.  Again  Felix  thought  that  somehow  she  had 
changed.     Mrs.  Wilding  returned  her  look,  got  up,  and  they 


328  FELIX 

went  out  together.  Stephen  followed  them  with  his  eyes.  An 
odd  expression  came  into  his  face  as  he  did  so.  Felix  noticed 
it  and  wondered  what  it  meant.  It  was,  he  said  to  himself,  a 
very  human  look.  The  clergyman  disappeared  in  the  man.  As 
Stephen  watched  the  two  women  just  then  he  might  have  been 
a  labourer,  a  soldier;  he  might  even  have  been  a  ne'er-do-weel 
to  whose  heart  a  tender  feeling  had  come. 

When  the  door  was  shut  he  said  to  Felix : 

'What  a  good  woman  the  mother  is.  I  never  felt  how 
precious  goodness  is  till  lately  and  through  her,  not  even  with 
my  own  dear  mother.  For  she  has  not  had  to  face  so  much, 
through  the  mercy  of  God.' 

Felix  was  so  thoroughly  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  his 
mother  was  a  good  woman  that  his  'Yes,  I  know,'  was  perhaps 
rather  perfunctory.  He  was  longing  to  make  the  most  of  this 
opportunity  of  being  alone  with  Stephen.  They  sat  silent  for 
a  moment.     Then  Felix  said  with  some  nervous  hurry : 

'Awfully  hard  lines  on  your  friend  having  Mrs.  Ismey  laid 
up,  isn't  it  ? ' 

The  human  look  disappeared  from  Stephen's  face. 

'  Francis  has  had  a  good  deal  to  bear  in  his  life,'  he  replied. 

Felix  instantly  felt  intensely  hostile  to  his  brother-in-law. 

'  Well,  after  all,  it 's  Mrs.  Ismey  who  's  suffering  most  now,' 
he  said. 

'Physically,'  said  Stephen. 

'  Physical  suffering  's  hardly  a  thing  to  laugh  at  when  it  brings 
a — a  person  to  death's  door,'  said  Felix,  almost  trembling  with 
the  anger  he  did  not  dare  to  show. 

'Let  us  hope,  for  her  sake,  that  Mrs.  Ismey  will  recover,' 
responded  Stephen. 

There  was  a  marked  emphasis  on  the  '  for  her  sake.' 

Felix  bit  his  lip.  At  that  moment  he  could  have  struck 
Stephen.  Only  his  overpowering  desire  to  know  the  exact  truth 
of  Mrs.  Ismey's  condition  prevented  him  from  some  outburst. 
After  an  instant  of  silence  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  careless 
curiosity  : 

'  Does— do  the  doctors  think  she  's  likely  to  recover?' 

'I  believe  they  consider  it  possible.' 

The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Wilding  and  Margot  came  in. 
Felix  was  obliged  to  drive  away  with  his  mother  not  merely 
unsatisfied,  but  with  all  his  fears  increased  tenfold.  He  scarcely 
spoke  on  the  way  home.  At  dinner  and  afterwards  in  the 
drawing  room  he  was  gloomy,  morose.  When  his  mother 
addressed  hiai  'ne  scarcely  seemed  to  hear  her.  Once  or  twice 
he  contradicted  her  rudely.     When  she  bade  him  good-night 


FELIX  S29 

and  kissed  him  tenderly,  he  shrank  obviously  from  her  caress. 
All  the  time  he  was  thinking,  *If  she  should  die,  if  she  should 
die.'  That  night  he  felt  as  if  his  whole  life  had  been  lived  since 
he  had  known  Mrs.  Ismey ;  as  if,  before  he  knew  her,  he  had 
been  like  the  little  children,  who  regard  the  sun  or  a  puddle  in 
the  road  with  the  same  gaze  of  dull,  staring  wonder. 

His  mother  was  a  shadow  to  him,  something  far  off  from  his 
life.  When  she  kissed  him  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  lips. 
Perhaps  already  the  pallor  of  death  was  upon  them. 

The  next  morning  he  caught  the  first  express  from  Frankton 
Wells  to  London.  He  did  not  even  try  to  conceal  from  his 
mother  his  intense  eagerness  to  leave  her  and  be  again  in  town. 
When  the  carriage  had  driven  away  from  the  door  she  went 
slowly  upstairs  to  her  bedroom.  Some  hours  passed  before  she 
came  down.  At  luncheon  the  butler  noticed  that  she  was  looking 
*  mortal  bad,'  as  he  said  afterwards  to  the  other  servants,  and 
that  she  hardly  ate  anything. 

'She's  moping,'  was  the  general  verdict,  'after  Master  Felix.' 

All  the  domestics  at  Hill  House,  in  general  conclave  as- 
sembled, agreed  that  it  was  a  sad  pity  to  mope. 

'  Life 's  too  short  for  it,'  observed  the  upper  housemaid,  who, 
having  recently  become  engaged  to  the  rector's  gardener,  was  an 
impassioned  optimist  for  the  moment.  And  the  turkey  and 
plum-pudding  devoted  to  the  appetites  of  the  servants'  hall  still 
holding  out  bravely  against  the  repeated  assaults  made  upon 
them,  there  was  not  one  to  say  her  nay. 

Felix  was  to  be  twenty-one  in  the  third  week  in  January.  He 
wrote  to  his  mother  from  London  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
come  down  to  spend  his  birthday  with  her.  He  had  too  much 
to  do,  and  he  thought  that,  after  one  had  reached  a  certain  age, 
'birthdays  are  a  mistake.'  A  letter  from  Margot,  soon  after  he 
had  expressed  this  opinion,  wished  him  very,  very  many  happy 
returns  of  the  day,  and  told  him  :  '  We  are  afraid  poor  mother  is 
sadly  disappointed  at  not  having  you  with  her  for  it.  She  does 
not  say  so,  but  we  can't  help  seeing  it  by  her  manner.  She 
seems  to  have  no  spring  lately,  no  life  for  anything.' 

Felix  tore  up  the  letter  directly  he  had  read  it,  and  threw  it 
into  the  fire. 

'Wei'  he  exclaimed  half  aloud.  'We!  I  know  who  is 
teaching  Margot  to  lecture  me.' 

Ever  since  that  short  conversation  with  Stephen  about  Mrs. 
Ismey's  illness  Felix  had  disliked  him  more  tlian  ever.  He  almost 
hated  him.  And  now,  in  his  mind,  he  connected  Stti)hcn  not 
only  with  Margot,  but  also  closely  with  his  moil  <r.  lie  thought 
of  them  all  as  adverse  to  '  It  was  evident  to  him 


830  FELIX 

that  Stephen  had  considered  that  it  would  not  be  a  disaster, 
but — yes,  he  was  not  exaggerating — almost  a  benefit,  if  she  did 
recover.  A  benefit  to  whom  ?  He  must  have  been  thinking  of 
Mr.  Ismey.  And  what  Stephen  thought  Margot  thought.  As 
to  his  mother  she  had  never  liked  Mrs.  Ismey.  She  had  never 
taken  to  her.  Had  she  not  said  as  much  long  ago  after  Margot's 
wedding?  And  no  doubt  since  she  had  opened  that  telegram 
her  utterly  unreasonable  dislike  had  increased.  But  women 
always  hated  women.  It  was  useless  to  expect  generosity  from 
one  woman  towards  another — except  from  Mrs.  Ismey.  He 
thought  of  her  noble,  self-sacrificing  devotion  to  Lady  Caroline 
with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

She  still  continued  to  be  very  ill,  and  this  illness  of  hers,  the 
mystery  surrounding  it,  Stephen's  cruel  words,  the  bitterness  of 
Mr.  Ismey's  manner  when  Felix  had  asked  him  for  news,  Lady 
Caroline's  neglect  of  her  friend,  all  these  things  combined  to  fan 
the  flame  in  the  heart  of  Felix.  He  felt  as  if,  but  for  him,  Mrs. 
Ismey  would  be  alone  in  the  world.  Just  before  he  came  of  age 
this  suspicion  of  her  solitariness  in  suffering  was  changed  into 
something  like  certainty  by  a  fact  that  startled  him  by  its  shame- 
less indit!'erence.  Mr.  Ismey  again  went  abroad.  Felix,  when 
he  inquired  in  Green  Street — he  did  so  nearly  every  day — was 
told  of  this  by  the  servant,  a  new  man  whom  he  had  not  seen 
before. 

'  The  doctor  still  comes  every  day,  sir,'  the  servant  said. 
'  But  I  think  Mrs.  Ismey  must  be  a  little  better,  for  Mr.  Ismey 
went  abroad  last  night  for  some  time.' 

'Mr.  Ismey  has  gone  abroad  ! '  said  Felix. 

'Yes,  sir.' 

The  footman  looked  surprised.  Felix  turned  away.  He 
longed  to  force  himself  into  the  house,  to  make  his  way  to  Mrs. 
Ismey's  sick-bed,  to  tell  her  that  there  was  at  any  rate  one  person 
in  the  world  who  cared,  who  cared  too  much,  whether  she  lived 
or  died.  It  was  horrible,  abominable.  To  be  married  to  her 
and  to  leave  her  like  that !  He  thought  of  Mr.  Ismey's  face. 
He  had  looked  at  it  and  said  to  himself  that  it  was  the  face  of  a 
good,  a  straight  man ;  reserved  perhaps,  proud,  but  sensitive, 
kindly — in  fine,  a  gentleman's  face.  What  was  one  to  judge  by 
in  the  world  ?  What  was  there  that  did  not  deceive  ?  And  then 
he  thought  again  of  Stephen,  a  clergyman,  devoted  to  the  service 
of  God,  pledged  therefore  surely  to  mercy,  to  pity.  Yet  the 
human  look  had  died  out  of  his  eyes  when  he  spoke  of 
Mrs.  Ismey.  He  was  the  friend  of  Mr.  Ismey,  and  Mr.  Ismey 
must  be  the  enemy  of  his  wife.  He  could  not  leave  her  like 
this  unless  he  were  the  enemy. 


FELIX  331 

All  this  time  Felix  did  not  call  on  Lady  Caroline.  She  was 
included  among  those  against  whom  his  heart  waged  war,  and 
she  had  not  repeated  her  invitation  to  him,  although  she  had 
parted  from  him  with  apparent  cordiality. 

His  birthday  passed.  On  it  he  received  a  long  and  tender 
letter  from  his  mother,  and  also  a  present,  the  ring  which  his 
father  had  always  worn. 

He  was  now  master  of  his  own  money  and  had  his  own  bank- 
book. The  first  cheque  he  wrote  was  made  out  to  his  mother, 
and  was  for  a  hundred  pounds.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  when 
he  had  posted  it,  he  breathed  more  freely.  There  was  some- 
thing in  being  twenty-one.  A  Rubicon  was  crossed.  He  felt 
more  of  a  man  than  ever.  Arliss  had  put  him  up  for  the  Bath 
Club,  and  just  about  this  time  he  was  elected  a  member.  He 
dropped  in  there  often  after  he  had  left  Sam's  and  had  made 
inquiries  in  Green  Street.  To  distract  his  mind,  still  obsessed 
by  Mrs.  Ismey's  prolonged  illness,  he  began  to  go  in  for  gym- 
nastics. He  returned  home  in  the  evening,  or  at  night  after 
dining  at  the  Club,  tired  out ;  and  his  sleep,  which  had  been 
disturbed  by  his  anxiety,  became  calmer,  more  prolonged.  At 
Sam's  he  worked  hard,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  making  progress, 
that  he  was  gradually  obtaining  more  mastery  over  the  use  of 
words,  was  learning  how  to  express  his  thoughts  with  greater 
clearness  and  finer  simplicity  than  at  first.  Yet,  whatever  he 
was  doing,  even  if  he  were  doing  it  with  diligence,  with  will,  and 
with  success,  something  within  him  was  detached,  aloof.  And 
this  something  seemed  to  be  for  ever  standing  upon  the  door- 
step in  Green  Street,  listening  for  sounds  from  wiihin  the  house 
where  she  lay  ill. 

The  news  he  had  of  her  was  better  towards  the  end  of  January. 
She  was  recovering,  the  servant  said.  For  some  time  she  had 
not  been  allowed  to  read  letters,  but  now  she  might.  Felix 
wrote  to  her.  One  morning  in  February  his  heart  stood  still, 
and  then  beat  furiously.  On  his  table  lay  a  letter  from  her.  He 
took  it  up  carefully  as  if  it  were  a  precious  thing,  and  looked  at 
it  as  a  man  looks  long  at  an  exquisite  ])icture  or  at  a  jewel. 
Her  handwriting,  instead  of  being  more  feeble  than  usual,  was 
certainly  stronger,  clearer.  He  had  never  received  a  letter  from 
her  addressed  so  firmly  and  so  legibly.  She  must  be  astonish- 
ingly better.  When  he  opened  the  letter  he  found  that  it  was 
also  quite  legit)le.  Each  word  was  formed  and  finished.  There 
were  none  of  the  usual  straight  lines  and  abbreviations,  none  of 
the  usual  blots  and  smudges.  It  is  true  that  the  letter  was  very 
short,  but  it  contained  everything  for  him.  It  asked  him  to 
^ome  and  see  her.     He  went  that  day. 


332  FELIX 

As  he  walked  up  the  street  he  felt  nervous  and  shy.  Perhaps 
her  ilhiess  had  altered  her.  Perhaps,  after  this  long  interval, 
during  which  their  intercourse  had  been  interrupted,  she  had 
changed.  He  might  find  that  their  intimacy  was  broken.  They 
might  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  Would  she  be  still  in 
bed  or  on  the  sofa?  And  her  looks?  No  doubt  in  her  face  he 
would  find  something  of  the  horror  of  her  illness  still  lingering. 
He  must  be  prepared  for  that.  He  must  not  expect  her  to  look 
charming,  to  have  any  light  in  her  eyes,  or  life  in  her  manner. 
At  this  moment  he  quite  forgot  how  often  he  had  sat  with  her 
and  seen  her  looking  ill  from  worry. 

The  servant  let  him  in.  It  seemed  very  strange  and  eventful 
to  step  once  more  into  the  hall,  to  mount  the  stairs.  Would 
the  footman  stop  at  the  drawing-room  door,  or  go  on  to  the  next 
floor,  where  probably  her  bedroom  was?  He  stopped  on  the 
first  landing,  opened  the  drawing-room  door, and  announced  Felix. 

Felix  went  in,  walking  with  precaution.  He  felt  inclined  to 
hold  his  breath — till  he  saw  her.  But  when  he  saw  her  his 
doubts  and  fears,  his  shyness  and  almost  awkward  timidity 
vanished.     She  looked  so  startlingly  well. 

She  was  lying  on  the  sofa  as  usual,  and  had  a  book  in  her 
hand,  which  she  laid  down  as  he  came  towards  her,  turning  to 
him  with  a  smile.  Her  gown  was  pale  green  and  fitted  tightly 
to  her  figure.  There  was  nothing  that  suggested  the  invalid 
about  it.     She  could  have  walked  out  in  it. 

*  But — but  how  well  you  look  ! '  was  all  he  could  say,  while  he 
took  her  hand.     '  How  well  you  look  ! ' 

'Do  I?' 

'But — but  it's  extraordinary  !' 

As  he  gazed  at  her  clear  eyes,  at  her  soft,  fresh-looking  skin, 
at  her  rosy,  moist  lips,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been 
tricked,  that  she  had  never  been  ill  at  all. 

'  Why  extraordinary  ?  I  'm  not  ill  now.  Sit  down.  My  dear 
boy,  what's  the  matter?     Are  you  petrified?' 

He  gave  a  great  sigh  and  sat  down,  still  looking  at  her  with  a 
sort  of  fascinated  amazement.  She  made  the  squirrel's  face  at 
him,  screwing  up  her  eyes.  That  seemed  to  break  the  spell. 
He  laughed. 

'  Oh,  I  am  glad  !     I  am  glad  ! '  he  exclaimed. 

And  he  sat  there  in  silence  staring  at  her,  almost  like  a  little 
boy.     She  laughed  too. 

*  You  would  make  even  a  woman  of  a  certain  age  feel  young,' 
she  said.     '  Where  's  your  top  ?    Don't  you  want  to  play  with  it  ? ' 

And  he  had  thought  that  perhaps  their  intimacy  was  broken  1 
He  had  prepared  himself  for — idiot ! 


FELIX  833 

*  Oh,  I  'm  such  an  ass ! '  he  said  fervently. 
'No  doubt,  but  why?' 

'  If  only  you  knew  all  I  have  been  thinking  as  I  walked  up 
the  street ! ' 
'Tell  me.' 
'And  all  I 've  been  thinking  while  you  've  been  ill.' 

*  Life  is  short.  Still,  tell  me  as  much  as  the  Judgment  Day 
leaves  us  time  for.' 

He  told  her  some  of  his  thoughts.  She  listened.  Sometimes 
she  smiled,  sometimes  she  laughed.  But  presently  the  gaiety 
died  away  from  her  face  and  she  looked  grave.  Carried  away 
by  his  surprise  and  joy  in  finding  her  so  well,  his  former  sus- 
picions seemed  to  Felix  so  absurd  that  he  began  to  recount  them 
to  her,  to  make  a  joke  of  them. 

'  I  thought — I  hardly  know  what  I  thought,'  he  said  :  '  that 
you  had  been  made  ill  deliberately,  that  you  would  never  have 
been  ill  at  all  if— if ' 

'If  what?'  she  said. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  startled  him. 

'  If What 's  the  matter  ? '  he  said. 

'Nothing.' 

'But  you  look  angry.' 

She  smiled  suddenly. 

'No,  I'm  not.  Don't  be  so  imaginative.  It's  tiresome. 
Go  on.' 

But  he  could  not  go  on. 

'  No,'  he  said.     '  I  am  talking  nonsense.* 

'  But  I  want  to  hear  it.' 

'No,  no,'  he  repeated. 

The  expression  he  had  seen  on  her  face  had  warned  him  that 
to  speak,  as  he  had  been  about  to  speak,  of  his  wild  suspicions 
of  her  husband,  even  to  laugh  at  them  and  ridicule  himself, 
would  be  injudicious  if  not  unpardonable.  He  was  thankful  he 
had  stopped  in  time. 

'  Who  did  you  think  had  made  me  ill  ? '  she  asked  obstinately. 

'Nobody.     But  what  was  it?' 

'  I  told  you.     It  was  a  chill.' 

Felix  thought  of  his  brother-in-law's  odd,  constrained  manner 
when  it  had  been  suggested  that  Mrs.  Ismey's  illness  was  the 
result  of  a  chill.     What  could  have  caused  it? 

'  I  am  afraid  you  have  suffered  terribly,'  he  said. 

'Suffered!' 

A  dreadful  expression  flitted  across  her  face.  Felix  supposed 
it  must  be  caused  by  the  mci..ory  of  the  pain  she  had  endured, 
but  it  looked  like  an  expression  of  hatred. 


334  FELIX 

'We  won't  talk  about  it,'  she  said.  ' What *s  the  use ?  It's 
over  and  it  shall  never  happen  again.' 

'  You  speak  as  if  you  knew  you  could  never  be  ill  again  in 
that  way,'  he  said. 

'I  do  know  it.' 

That  seemed  utterly  impossible  to  him.  There  was  some- 
thing implacable  in  her  manner.  In  her  convalescence  she  was 
surely  changed.  He  seemed  to  detect  a  strength  of  character 
in  her,  a  something  almost  fierce,  which  he  had  never  been  con- 
scious of  before.  But  it  must  always  have  been  there.  Had 
she  not  put  in  her  foot  to  force  an  entrance  into  the  house  of 
the  morphmeuse. 

She  smiled,  changed  the  conversation,  and  seemed  gay  once 
more.  She  asked  about  all  that  Felix  had  done,  about  his  work, 
about  the  people  he  had  met. 

'You  haven't  seen  Carrie,  I  suppose?'  she  asked  presently. 

Felix  remembered  that  he  had  a  confession  to  make. 
Yes,  once.     I  went  to  luncheon  with  her.' 

'To  luncheon?' 

She  looked  surprised,  and  not  very  pleased,  he  thought. 

'Yes.     It  was  just  after  your  party.' 

'  Oh  !     Were  there  many  people  ? ' 

'No.     Only  she  and  I.' 

'  You  and  Carrie  alone  !     How  did  you  get  on  ? ' 

'Very  well.' 

'I'm  glad  of  that.' 

Her  voice  did  not  sound  as  if  she  were  really  very  glad. 

'I  haven't  seen  Carrie  once  since  I  have  been  ill,'  she  added. 

'I  think  she  might  have  come,'  he  said,  with  sudden  heat. 

*0h,  it  was  not  her  fault.     Poor  old  Carrie.' 

'  Wasn't  it  ?     I  suppose  the  doctor ' 

She  interrupted  him. 

'I  always  tell  you  everything,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you  this. 
She  didn't  come  because  my  husband  has  forbidden  her  the 
house.' 

'  Lady  Caroline — forbidden  ! ' 

It  seemed  to  Felix  to  be  an  outrage. 

♦Then  he's ?' 

'  Yes.     He 's  found  out  all  about  the  morphia,' 

'  But  not  about — he  doesn't  know  about  Paris?* 

'Yes,  he  does.* 

'  How  awful ! ' 

Felix  was  thinking  of  her  situation.  But  now  he  thought  of 
the  letters  and  grew  hot. 


FELIX  886 

•And  the  letters?'  he  said. 

'You  don't  suppose  I  gave  you  away ! ' 

When  she  said  this  she  made  him  feel  as  if,  for  a  moment,  he 
had  been  a  cur. 

'  Did  you  notice  that  a  new  man  opened  the  door  to  you 
to-day?' 

'  Yes.     I  've  seen  him  once  before  when  I  inquired.' 

'The  other  one  was  given  warning.' 

'  Was  it  he— did  he ? ' 

Felix  could  not  get  the  words  out.  The  whole  thing  seemed 
so  low,  so  abominably  common  and  vulgar. 

'He  was  treacherous.  He  told  Francis  I  had  been  away 
from  home,  and  the  whole  thing  came  out.  Francis  had 
always  hated  Carrie.  There  was  a  frightful  row.  It  was  partly 
that  which  made  me  ill.  I  have  gone  through  a  good  deal, 
Felix.' 

'  How  I  pity  you,'  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  '  Was  your  husband 
very  angry  ? ' 

Instead  of  replying  she  asked  him  a  question. 

'Do  you  remember  my  saying  once  that  I  could  imagine 
Francis  killing  me  but  not  scolding  me?' 

'Yes.  It  was  on  the  day  1  dined  with  you  at  Lady 
Caroline's.' 

'  I  did  not  know  then  how  true  a  thing  I  was  saying,'  she 
replied. 

Again  the  dreadful  expression  went  across  her  face.  Felix 
knew  now  that  he  had  been  right  when  he  had  suspected  that 
there  was  a  mystery  about  her  illness.  Fie  was  sure  from  the 
way  she  spoke  that  her  husband  was  concerned  in  it.  But  how? 
Could  there  have  been  a  scene  of  violence?  Could  Mr.  Ismey 
have ? 

He  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  sofa  on  which  she  was  lying. 

'  Look  here,'  he  said.  '  I  don't  want  to  seem  curious,  but  has 
there  been  anything — I  mean,  do  you  want  some  one  lo  protect 
you?  Because,  if  you  ever  do,  you  know  I  would  do  anything 
— anything  for  you.' 

He  had  never  before  come  so  near  to  telling  her  that  he 
loved  her. 

'  I  think  you  would,'  she  said.  '  I  don't  know  wlictlier  some 
day  I  mayn't  ask  you  to  do  a  great  deal — one  never  knows. 
My  husband '     She  hesitated. 

Felix  felt  that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  an  outbreak.  There 
was  fire  in  her  eyes.  Her  hands  began  to  tremble.  She  clasped 
them  together. 


336  FELIX 

*  I  feel  very  differently  about  Francis  from  what  I  did  before  I 
was  ill,'  she  said  at  last. 
She  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  a  depth  of  hatred  in  her  voice. 
'  How  strange  of  him  to  leave  you.     Wasn't  it  ? ' 
'  I  made  the  doctor  tell  him  to  go,'  she  replied. 
There  was  a  silence  between  them.     It  seemed  to  Felix  as 
if  he  had  just  seen  a  tragedy  enacted  in  the  pretty  room  where 
he  was  sitting,  as  if  he  had  seen  her  struck  down.     He  was 
fearfully  excited.     He   longed   to   get   up   and  perform   some 
physical  act  in  defence  of  her.     He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her 
lest  she  should  see  too  much  in  his  eyes.     At  that  moment  his 
feeling  for  her  changed.     Something  of  the  intense  purity  went 
out  of  it,  something  of  savagery  entered  in.     It  had  been  very 
boyish  in  its  almost  cold  chivalry  and  lack  of  sensuality.     Now 
the  desire  to  fight  for  her  brought  with  it  a  faint,   as  yet  a 
very  faint,  stirring  of  the  possessive  instinct  which  lies  at  the 
root  of  most  men's  love.     She  was  the  first  to  speak  again.    Her 
voice  and  manner  had  quite  changed  as  she  said : 

'Well,  what  did  Carrie  and  you  find  to  talk  about  together?' 

She  spoke  lightly  in  a  voice  of  society,  but  his  reply  at  once 
drove  her  back  to  a  much  graver  mood.  It  seemed  as  if  their 
first  interview  was  not  to  be  untroubled. 

'  We  talked  about  you,'  Felix  said,  resolved  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  the  matter. 

He  would  rather  have  lied  to  his  mother  than  have  lied  to  her 
that  day. 

'  We  talked  about  you,  and  I  've  been  wanting  ever  since  to 
tell  you  what  we — that  is,  what  I  said.  I  think  perhaps  you'll 
be  very  angry.' 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously.  He  was  really  wondering  how 
she  would  take  his  confession. 

'  Why  ?     What  did  you  say  ? ' 

She  spoke  quickly,  uneasily. 

'  I  told  her  what  you  had  told  me  about  her.' 

It  sounded  to  his  own  ears  awful,  put  in  that  naked  way,  and 
he  hastened  to  add : 

*  She  knew  already  that  you  had  told  me.  She  said  so,  and 
of  course  I  had  to  acknowledge  the  truth.' 

She  had  opened  her  Ups  while  he  was  speaking,  as  if  to 
interrupt  him,  but  when  he  said  the  last  words  she  closed  them 
again,  and  lay  there  looking  at  him  with  steady  eyes. 

'  You  would  not  have  had  me  lie  about  it  ? '  he  said. 

♦Oh  no.' 

The  words  sounded  bitterly  ironical. 


FELIX  837 

'Would  you  have  had  me  lie?'  he  asked. 

'I  said  no.     No,  of  course  not.' 

This  time  she  spoke  as  if  she  meant  what  she  said. 

'  And  when  I  had  told  her  that  I  knew  about — all  about  the 
morphia,  I  begged  her  to  give  it  up  for  your  sake.  I  tried  to 
make  her  understand  the  truth.' 

'  What  truth  ? ' 

'Why,  that  her  way  of  life  was  making  you  ill,  through  the 
anxiety  and  fear,  and  the ' 

'You  told  her  all  that?' 

'Yes,'  he  said,  growing  more  confident  now  that  the  confes- 
sion was  out  at  last.  '  And  I  showed  her  how  appalling  it  was 
for  you  to  be  led  into  such  places  as  that  den  in  Paris  in  order 
to  persuade  her ' 

'But,  Carrie,'  she  interrupted  suddenly,  as  if  almost  in  spite 
of  herself.     '  What  did  Carrie  say  ? ' 

'Scarcely  anything.' 

It  struck  him  now  how  little  she  had  said. 

'  Well,  but  what  did  she  seem  Hke  ?     What  did  she  look  like  ? ' 

He  thought  for  a  moment. 

'  I  hardly  know ;  but  I  remember  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  she 
pitied ' 

'Me!' 

'  No,'  he  said  slowly.     '  Me.' 

'Pitied  you!' 

'It  was  very  strange.     I  can't  think  why.' 

He  looked  at  her.  She  shut  her  eyes  at  once  and  lay  back 
on  her  cushions. 

'  Oh,  you  're  tired,'  he  exclaimed.     '  I  've  tired  you  ! ' 

'Yes,'  she  said,  keeping  her  eyes  shut.  'You  see  we've 
talked  so  much,  and  about  such  dreadful  things.' 

'Shall  I  go?' 

She  shook  slightly,  as  a  person  shakes  who  is  suppressing 
laughter. 

'  Yes,  go  now.     Good-bye.' 

Her  voice  quivered  and  broke.  She  touched  his  hand.  He 
got  up  quickly. 

'  Good-bye,'  he  said.    '  You  're  not  feeling  very  bad,  are  you  ? ' 

She  did  not  answer,  but  again  she  shook  against  the  cushions. 
He  went  out. 

'She  couldn't — she  couldn't  have  been  laughing,'  he  kept  on 
saying  to  himself  as  he  went  down  the  stairs.  And  when  he 
was  in  the  street  he  thought: 

'Or  was  she  crying?' 
Y 


CHAPTER    XXV 

ONE  day  very  early  in  March  Felix  received  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Ismey  to  say  that  her  husband,  who  had  returned 
from  abroad  soon  after  her  recovery,  had  gone  up  to  Scotland 
for  a  week  on  business,  and  that  she  meant  to  run  down  to 
the  seaside. 

Felix  had  noticed  that  her  beautiful  look  of  health,  which 
had  so  delighted  him,  had  died  away,  that  the  physical 
and  mental  irregularities,  which  had  puzzled  and  distressed 
him  in  the  past,  began  to  present  themselves  once  more.  She 
said  in  her  note  that  she  was  'feeling  seedy'  and  thought  the 
sea  air  would  pick  her  up.  She  was  going  to  take  Alice  as  a 
companion,  and  had  written  for  rooms  to  a  quiet  little  hotel 
on  the  south  coast  at  a  village  called  Eldon  Sands.  Did  Felix 
think  there  was  any  chance  of  his  being  able  to  join  them 
from  Saturday  to  Monday?  She  would  love  it  if  he  could, 
and  it  would  cheer  her  up.  She  was  depressed,  and  hated  the 
noise  of  London. 

Felix  was  enchanted.  He  had  not  seen  Mrs.  Ismey  in  the 
country  since  the  day  of  Margot's  wedding.  Visions  of  the  sea, 
of  sunset  over  flat  sands,  of  isolation  with  her  in  a  beautiful 
solitude  filled  with  the  music  of  nature,  with  the  freshness  of 
nature's  breath,  the  calm  of  nature's  repose  passed  through  his 
brain  and  thrilled  his  heart.  He  telegraphed  that  he  would 
come,  and  on  the  Saturday  he  got  into  the  train  and,  with  a 
sensation  of  joy  that  was  almost  exultant,  saw  the  dingy  platform, 
the  red-faced  porters,  the  empty  luggage-trucks  disappear  in  the 
murky  greyness  of  the  London  atmosphere,  saw  the  pale  fieKls 
come  up  on  either  side  of  the  train  to  greet  him,  brown  plough- 
lands  curving  under  a  quiet,  whitish  sky,  cottages  standing  alone 
among  the  leafless  trees  which  would  soon  be  budding,  roads 
like  narrow  ribands  winding  away  into  the  low,  rounded  hills, 
or  stretching  across  plains  on  which  the  tiny  figures  of  labourers 
moved  like  busy  dolls. 

It  was  afternoon  and  drawing  towards  twilight.  An  infinite 
delicacy  was  alive  in  the  pensive  radiance,  when,  through  the 

338 


FELIX  889 

thin  screen  of  narrow  clouds,  the  sun  sent  a  trembhng  beam 
whi(  h  rested,  with  a  sort  of  humble  cheerfulness,  upon  some 
enipiy  garden,  village  green,  or  leafless  orchard,  reminding  Felix 
of  tiie  ethereal  radiance  which  had  stirred  in  the  bosom  of  the 
forest  when  he  bade  good-bye  to  the  tailor.  Then  he  had  felt 
as  if  the  wide  earth  held  but  a  trinity  of  personalities  :  God, 
nature,  himself  Now,  leaning  out  of  the  window,  he  set  his 
face  towards  the  sea  and  thought  of  a  woman. 

What  would  she  be  like  by  the  sea? 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  wave  and  the  solitude  would  set  the 
seal  on  their  great  friendsliip,  which  had  been  waitir  g,  like  a 
thing  held  in  abeyance,  for  this  event  of  which  he  had  never 
dreamed.  Never  once  had  he  thought  of  being  alone  with  her 
in  a  country  place,  of  being  out  with  her  under  the  stars  as  he 
was  with  her  in  the  garden  at  Churston  Waters,  on  the  night  of 
their  first  meeting.  Why  had  he  been  so  thoughtless,  so  un- 
imaginative? Was  theirs  to  be  a  mere  drawing-room  intimacy? 
Had  it  not  begun  under  the  sky  at  night?  And  he  remembered 
the  strange,  uneasy  flight  of  the  bats  across  the  shaven  lawn.  He 
remembered  how  the  moonlight  caught  her  hair  when  she  bent 
down  so  suddenly  after  he  had  left  her.  That  night  she  had 
been  mysterious  to  him.     Would  she  be  mysterious  to  him  again  ? 

The  twilight  began  to  enclose  the  quiet  country.  Lights  shone 
in  the  cottages.  The  world  was  surely  very  full  of  silence  and 
of  dreams. 

When  the  train  ran  into  the  tiny  station  of  Eldon  Sands  Mrs, 
Ismey  <ind  Alice  were  on  the  platform  to  meet  him.  Mrs.  Ismey 
was  in  country  clothes.  She  had  on  a  short  gown  of  some  woolly 
material,  dull  blue  in  colour,  with  a  thin  line  of  dark  red  in  it,  a 
little  blue-and-red  toque  with  a  scarlet  upstanding  feather  on 
one  side,  brown  boots,  and  brown  suede  gloves.  She  carried  a 
walking-stick  in  her  hand.  Felix  looked  at  her  eagerly.  He 
was  so  accustomed  to  see  her  lying  down  on  a  sofa  that  this  was 
a  new  and  exciting  experience.  Alice  stood  a  liltle  way  off  while 
they  exchanged  greetings  and  looked  towards  the  sea,  which  was 
tunil^ling  in  foam  upon  the  flat  yellow  sands.  When  Felix  wished 
her  good-evening  she  murmured  a  respectful  reply. 

He  thought  she  was  the  most  subdued  girl  he  had  ever  seen. 

*  We  will  walk  to  the  hotel.     It  is  close  by,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey. 

They  set  out,  followed  by  Alice  and  by  a  porter  carrying  his 
bag.  Eldon  Sands  was  really  a  solitary  place.  Felix  saw  that 
at  once,  and  was  glad.  There  was  tl.e  small,  neat  station,  with 
its  brown  doors  and  red-tiled  roo'',  a  few  bungalows  with  wooden 
shutters  closely  drawn  across  th^ir  windows,  a  larye  shed  which 


340  FELIX 

contained  a  lifeboat,  some  fishermen's  cottages,  and  the  hotel. 
Sandbanks  lay  around,  covered  with  dry,  pale  grass  which 
trembled  in  the  keen  breeze  blowing  over  the  flats. 

'  What  a  little  place  !'  he  said  joyously.  '  How  did  you  find 
it  out  ? ' 

'Through  Alice,' she  answered.  'She  comes  from  an  inland 
village  near  here.' 

'  It 's  glorious  air  ! ' 

'  Yes,  and  so  quiet.  All  the  bungalows  are  shut  up,  and  there 
are  only  three  people  in  the  hotel.' 

'  I  wonder  you  aren't  bored,'  he  said. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  as  she  walked  beside  him  on  the 
road,  which  was  covered  with  small  pebbles.  It  was  growing 
dark,  but  he  could  see  that  her  face  was  thickly  powdered.  The 
contrast  between  the  powder  and  the  place  made  him  wonder 
still  more  why  she  cared  to  come  here. 

'I  could  stay  here  for  ever,'  she  answered. 

*  Alone  with  Alice  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

'How  extraordinary  !* 

'There's  no  one  to  interfere  with  me  here,'  she  answered. 

When  she  said  that  there  was  almost  a  fierceness  of  joy  in  her 
voice,  and  he  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  her  husband.  They 
reached  the  hotel,  which  stood  at  the  very  edge  of  the  sands 
and  at  the  end  of  the  road.  There  was  no  highway  beyond  it. 
No  traffic  could  pass  its  windows.  Only  the  sea  came  up  at  the 
flow  of  the  tide  to  break  in  long  lines  of  foam  against  the  sand- 
banks which  stood  guard  over  it,  and  the  winds  blew  about  it, 
wailing  shrilly  in  the  night. 

'  What  a  place  to  be  in  with  you  ! '  Felix  said,  as  they  came 
into  the  little  lighted  hall. 

He  was  almost  overwhelmed  by  the  strangeness  of  it,  and  felt 
as  if  he  had  run  away  with  her,  as  if  they  had  left  London 
and  the  tragedy  of  her  life  there  for  ever,  as  if  she  belonged  to 
him.  The  loneliness  of  the  place,  the  sea,  the  sound  of  the 
blowing  winds,  the  darkness  coming  down  over  the  fiats 
strengthened,  gave  fibre  to  their  intimacy. 

'  Why,  how  your  eyes  are  sparkling  ! '  she  said  to  him. 

They  were  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  waiting  for  the 
porter  to  come  in  with  his  bag.  The  manageress  of  the  hotel,  a 
tall,  ladylike-looking  woman,  was  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  by 
the  front  door.  A  countrified  lad,  dressed  in  a  livery  with 
shining  buttons,  passed  t'nem  and  disappeared  into  a  rocm  on 
the  left.      Felix  caught  a  glimpse  of  pale-yellow  walls,  snowy- 


FELIX  341 

white  wooden  pillars,  small  tables  with  shaded  lamps,  a  section 
of  a  great  bow-window,  across  which  short  yellow  curtains  were 
drawn.  On  the  walls  there  was  a  brightness  thrown  by  the 
leaping  flame  of  a  hidden  fire.  From  the  darkness  outside  came 
the  soft  and  heavy  sound  of  the  sea. 

*I  feel  happy,' he  answered  simply.  'But — I  say,  how  your 
hands  are  trembling.' 

'  It 's  the  cold  wind,'  she  said  hastily.  '  I  '11  go  upstairs  and 
change  my  gown  now.  They  '11  show  you  your  room.  Dinner 
a";  seven.' 

She  disappeared  up  the  narrow,  pretty  staircase,  which  curved 
sharply  to  reach  the  landing  above. 

The  hotel  had  been  built  by  a  clever  architect  as  his  private 
house,  and  had  been  afterwards  enlarged.  It  was  extraordinarily 
homelike,  quiet,  and  pretty.  There  was  no  bar.  The  rooms 
were  low,  with  big  window-seats  and  latticed  window-panes. 
The  furniture,  the  wall-papers,  the  chintzes,  the  china  jugs  and 
basins  in  the  bedrooms  were  all  charming  and  delicately  fresh. 
Felix  was  enchanted.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  very  comfortable, 
though  simply  arranged  private  house.  When  he  pushed  open 
his  window  he  smelt  wet  seaweed,  and  saw  the  red  gleam  of 
a  revolving  light  far  out  at  sea.  He  drew  in  his  breath  with 
a  gasp  of  pleasure,  as  if  he  were  drawing  joy  into  his  lungs  and 
heart.  The  wind  was  strong,  and  it  was  a  dark  night.  He 
could  just  see  a  white  blur  where  the  foam  of  the  waves  was 
breaking  on  the  sands.  At  that  moment  he  was  conscious  of 
the  glorious  mystery,  the  ineffable,  unfailing  magic  of  nature, 
inexhaustible,  irresistible.  He  was  conscious  of  joy  in  natuie 
and  also  of  sorrow,  as  he  had  been  conscious  of  them  when  he 
stood  upon  the  bridge  of  Tours.  And  the  sorrow  seemed  as 
beautiful  to  him,  as  necessary  as  the  joy,  for  without  it  there 
would  have  been  less  of  mystery.  The  scent  of  the  sea  and  the 
sound  of  it  were  full  of  under  things,  that  could  only  be  felt, 
and  could  never  be  explained,  responding  to  the  murmuring, 
subterranean  voices  in  the  heart  of  man. 

He  went  down  filled  with  a  longing  for  sympathy,  for  expres- 
sion, for — 'What  do  I  want  really?'  he  thought  to  himself.  It 
was  surely  something  that  must  be  for  him  alone  and  yet  for 
the  whole  world.  But  how  could  that  be  ?  There  was  a  sort 
of  beautiful  confusion  of  night  and  of  sea  in  his  lieart. 

They  dined  together  at  a  little  table  in  the  bow  window 
and  near  to  the  fire.  As  they  sat  down  Felix  noticed  that 
Mrs.  Ismey's  face  was  painted  as  well  as  powdered,  and  that 
her  eyelashes  were  tinted.     This  gave  her  an  unnatural  cxpres- 


342  FELIX 

sion  which  at  first  he  hated.  The  three  other  people  whom 
she  had  spoken  of  sat  at  some  distance  away  in  the  large,  low 
room,  which  was  full  of  oases  of  light  from  the  shaded  lamps. 
One  of  them  was  an  oldish  man  with  an  ascetic  face,  who  was 
by  himself.  The  other  two  were  women,  thin,  inexpressive, 
dressed  in  black,  evidently  sisters. 

'They  are  of  the  wandering  spirit  genre,  Mrs.  Ismey  mur- 
mured to  Felix.     '  I  heard  them  talking  once.' 

*  What  about  ? ' 

'  Different  kinds  of  tea.' 

The  delight  of  being  alone  with  her  soon  made  him  forget 
that  unnatural  expression  which  had  startled  him.  They  did 
not  talk  very  much,  but  he  thought  that  they  were  more  intimate 
in  the  silences,  when  they  watched  the  firelight  dancing  on  the 
yellow  walls,  and  heard  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  After  dinner 
the  two  sisters  wandered  out.  They  both  walked  slightly  side- 
ways, looking  on  the  ground  as  if  searching  for  a  pin.  The  man 
with  the  ascetic  face  lit  a  cigarette,  sighed,  asked  the  waiter  to 
light  up  the  billiard-room,  and  disappeared.  A  moment  later 
the  click  of  the  balls  was  audible. 

'  We'll  have  coffee  here  by  the  fire,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

There  were  two  large  armchairs  near  the  hearth.  The 
countrified  waiter  brought  a  basket  table. 

'  Light  your  cigar,'  she  said.  '  Not  a  cigarette  to-night.  That 
is  for  London.     A  cigar  suggests  leisure.' 

'  Yes,  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean,'  he  answered.  '  I  am 
happy  to-night.' 

He  struck  a  match.  The  waiter  put  their  coffee  on  the  table, 
and  went  out,  shutting  the  white  door.  Felix  sat  down  in  one 
of  the  armchairs,  but  Mrs.  Ismey  remained  standing  by  the  fire. 
She  was  dressed  in  grey,  with  long  tight-fitting  sleeves  which 
partly  covered  her  hands.  She  put  the  coffee-cup  on  the  high 
mantelpiece. 

'  You  are  always  happy,  I  believe,'  she  said,  in  the  drawling 
voice  which  he  had  learnt  to  love. 

'  Oh  no,  I  'm  not.     And  I  could  be  horribly  unhappy.' 

'If  what?' 

He  looked  up  at  her  from  his  low  chair.  Her  last  words  had 
made  him  realise  sharply  just  what  made  his  happiness  that 
night — isolation  with  her. 

'  Don't  you  know  ? '  he  asked. 

Something  in  him  seemed  to  be  trembling.  She  shook  her 
head.  The  firelight  was  surely  entangled  in  her  thick  and 
shining  hair. 


FELIX  845 

'How  can  I  ? '  she  said,  lifting  her  coffee-cup  and  saucer  from 
the  mantelpiece. 

He  heard  the  distant  sound  of  the  sea,  the  voice  of  the  wind 
round  the  house.  He  remembered  the  solitude  of  the  flat  sands 
outside.  Everything  seemed  far  away  from  them,  and  he 
resolved  to  tell  her. 

'  If  I  were  to  be  separated  from ' 

He  never  finished  the  sentence,  for  just  then  an  extra- 
ordinary thing  happened.  She  was  holding  her  saucer  in  one 
hand  and  lifting  her  coffee-cup  to  her  lips  with  the  other. 
Suddenly  both  her  hands  seemed  to  lose  all  power,  to  become 
nerveless,  dead  things.  They  dropped  down.  He  saw  them 
hanging  at  her  sides,  the  cup  and  saucer  smashed  to  fragments 
on  the  floor.  A  dark  stain  of  coffee  disfigured  the  front  of  her 
grey  gown.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  move.  He  was  frightened. 
He  did  not  feel  at  all  as  if  he  had  seen  a  trifling  accident,  but 
as  if  he  had  been  abruptly  brought  face  to  face  with  some 
tragedy  of  illness.     Then  he  sprang  up. 

'How  stupid  of  me,'  she  said  indifferently.  'Just  ring  for 
Alice,  will  you  ? ' 

He  rang  the  bell. 

'  Your  dress  is  awfully  spoilt,  I  'm  afraid,'  he  said,  still  feeling 
frightened. 

'  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.' 

Evidently  she  did  not  mind  at  all.     The  waiter  came  in. 

'Take  that  away,  please,'  she  said,  pointing  to  the  broken 
china ;  '  and  ask  my  maid  to  come  to  me  for  a  minute.' 

The  waiter  looked  at  the  china,  then  at  Mrs.  Ismcy,  and 
afterwards  at  Felix.  There  was  an  expression  of  almost  abject 
surprise  on  his  face.  Felix  noticed  it  and  thought  how  odd, 
how  very  unnatural  it  was.  The  lad  knelt  down,  collected  the 
china,  and  went  out,  still  looking  stupid  with  amazement. 

'  How — what  happened  ?  '  Felix  said.     '  You  aren't ' 

'My  hands  were  cold,'  she  replied,  interrupting  him.  'Oh, 
Alice,  just  wipe  my  gown,  will  you?' 

She  sat  down  as  she  spoke. 

The  maid  had  appeared  at  the  door.  She  came  forward,  took 
out  of  her  pocket  a  silk  handkerchief,  bent  down,  and  wiped 
the  place  where  the  ugly  stain  was.  When  she  had  finished  she 
looked  at  Felix  for  a  moment,  and  went  out  of  the  room  without 
a  word.     He  stared  after  her. 

'What  an  odd  girl  Alice  is,'  he  said. 

•  Why  odd  ? ' 

•I  don't  know.     But  she  looks  as  if  there  was  a  lot  in  her.' 


344,  FELIX 

'Oh,  sne 's  a  clever  maid,'  said  Mrs.  Ismey,  in  a  dismissing 
voice. 

She  began  to  talk  about  the  sea.  All  the  evening  Felix  was 
self-conscious  and  uneasy.  He  kept  looking  at  her  hands. 
Had  she  dropped  the  cup  to  prevent  him  from  saying  what  he 
had  been  going  to  say  ?  Or  was  she  ill  ?  Or — what  was  the 
matter  ?  His  sense  of  the  delicious  peace  of  Eldon  Sands  had 
left  him. 

On  Sunday  there  was  a  blustering  March  wind.  Mrs.  Ismey 
did  not  come  down  in  the  morning.  She  sent  a  message  to 
Felix  by  Alice  to  tell  him  that  she  would  see  him  at  lunch. 
He  was  disappointed. 

'  She  isn't  ill,  I  hope,'  he  said  to  Alice. 

The  maid  fixed  her  small  dark  eyes  on  him. 

*  Mrs.  Ismey  doesn't  generally  come  down  in  the  morning, 
sir,'  she  answered,  after  a  slight  hesitation. 

Felix  felt  as  if  she  wished  to  say  something  to  him.  He 
remembered  how  he  had  seen  her  looking  over  the  staircase  at 
him  one  night  in  Green  Street  when  he  was  leaving  Mrs.  Ismey, 
and  was  inclined  to  ask  her  if  she  wanted  anything  of  him. 
But  she  turned  away  and  went  out  quietly. 

Now  he  knew  that  it  was  Mrs.  Ismey's  habit  to  remain  in 
her  room  during  the  morning  he  did  not  mind  so  much.  He 
went  out  and  took  a  long  walk  on  the  sands.  The  wind 
filled  him  with  a  feeling  of  exultation,  and  he  drew  in  health 
with  the  scents  of  the  sea.  When  he  returned  to  the  hotel  he 
was  in  almost  wild  spirits.  He  longed  to  sing,  to  shout,  to 
perform  some  physical  feat.  All  the  boy  in  him  bubbled  to 
the  surface  of  him.  He  bounded  upstairs  to  wash  his  hands 
before  lunch,  his  cheeks  glowing  with  the  breath  of  the  wind, 
his  body  warm  with  exercise  and  tingling  with  life.  While  he 
was  in  his  bedroom  he  heard  the  gong  sound  below  in  the  hall, 
and  ran  down  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Ismey  was  waiting  for  him  by  the  window  of  the  public 
drawing-room.  The  grey  light  of  the  sunless  March  day  fell 
upon  her  face,  and,  as  he  looked  at  it,  Felix  felt  his  animal 
spirits  die  away.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  never  seen  her 
clearly  before,  in  the  cold,  searching  illumination  of  the  naked 
day,  and  as  if  to  do  so  were  a  revelation.  In  London  she  had 
often  looked  ill,  weary,  worried,  as  if  life  were  not  treating 
her  kindly.  But  he  had  been  conscious  that  a  cloud  or  a 
shadow  lay  over  her,  and  a  cloud  or  a  shadow  pass  away. 
Now  there  was  something  fixed,  irreparable  in  the  languor 
of  her  pose,   the   unnatural   hopelessness  of  her  expression. 


FELIX  845 

Her  face  was  made  up,  but  in  the  little  wrinkles  which  he 
saw  near  her  eyes,  in  the  fainter  lines  by  her  mouth,  there 
was  surely  a  hint  of  the  curiou-^,  ugly  pink  which  had  so  dis- 
gusted him  when  he  first  saw  Laay  Caroline.  A  violent 
perfume  filled  his  nostrils.  It  stole  from  her.  He  had  come 
in  with  the  odours  of  the  sea  caught  in  his  hair  and  clinging  to 
his  lips,  on  which  the  salt  films  rested.  At  this  moment  he 
was  almost  riotously  in  love  with  nature,  and  this  artificiality 
which  confronted  him  suddenly  repelled  him.  He  longed  to 
strip  it  from  her,  as  one  strips  an  ugly  mask  from  a  beautiful 
face. 

'  What  is  it  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?  '  she  said. 

'  I — I  was  only  thinking  that  1  wished  you  had  been  out  with 
me  this  morning,' he  answered.  'Oh,  it's  glorious!  Such  a 
wind  !  It  seems  somehow  to  put  one  right,  to  teach  one  what 
one  ought  to  want — no,  not  that,  what  one  really  has  wanted 
always  without  knowing  it.  You  must  come  out  with  me  this 
afternoon.' 

He  suddenly  felt  pitiful  over  her. 

'  I  'm  going  to  take  you  in  hand,'  he  said,  '  and  be  your 
doctor.' 

'  My  doctor ! '  she  exclaimed. 

Her  voice  startled  him.     It  was  fierce. 

'  But — I  only  meant ' 

'  I  know.  But  if  you  had  been  as  ill  as  I  have  you  wouldn't 
say  such  things  lightly.' 

She  seemed  quite  upset  by  his  chafifing  remark. 

'  I  believe  you  hate  doctors,'  he  said,  as  they  went  towards 
the  dining-room. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  hate  anything.  It  isn't  worth  while,'  she 
answered. 

There  was  a  profound  indifference  in  her  voice,  and  when 
they  sat  down  to  lunch  her  face  was  inexpressive.  Her  anger 
had  passed  away  with  startling  swiftness.  As  their  table  was 
m  the  bow-window  the  light  fell  fully  upon  them.  Almost 
imm-.  diately  she  said  : 

'The  li^ht  hurts  my  eyes.  Do  draw  one  of  those  little 
curtains.     Yes,  that  one — no,  more.     That 's  much  better.' 

'  Are  your  eyes  bad  ? '  he  asked  anxiously. 

'  No,  not  really.     But  I  hate  a  glare.' 

She  talked  very  little  at  lunch  and  ate  scarcely  anything. 
She  was  abstracted  and  almost  dreamy,  and  he,  feeling  so 
vigorous,  so  much  as  if  he  were  arm-in-arm  with  nature,  grew 
more  pitiful  over  her. 


346  FELIX 

*I  think  I  know  what  it  is,'  he  said.  'The  air  here  is  so 
strong  that  it  upsets  you  at  first,  because  you  hardly  ever  get 
any  air.' 

'Perhaps  it  is  that.' 

*  You  '11  come  out  with  me  this  afternoon.' 
« I  '11  see.' 

She  did  not  speak  either  gaily  or  reluctantly,  but  with  a  sort 
of  odd  indifference,  as  if  she  hardly  heard  him.  And  this  made 
him  more  determined  to  take  her  out  and  make  her  drink  in 
the  tonic  of  the  wind. 

'  Now  you  are  to  come  out,'  he  said,  about  half  an  hour  after 
lunch. 

He  had  been  smoking,  while  she  sat  in  an  armchair  by  the 
fire  with  half-closed  eyes,  talking  to  him  listlessly  as  if  her 
mind  were  intent  all  the  time  on  something  far  away. 

*  But  it 's  so  windy,'  she  said. 

*  All  the  better.  The  tide 's  a  good  way  down  and  the  sand 
is  as  hard  as  a  billiard-table.     Do  come.     You  '11  love  it.' 

'  Very  well,'  she  answered.  '  And  I  '11  tell  Alice  she  can  go 
out  too.' 

She  went  upstairs,  and  came  down  in  about  ten  minutes  with 
a  fur  coat  on  and  a  thick  veil  tied  over  her  face. 

'  But  you  '11  be  suffocated  in  that ! '  Felix  said. 

« No,  I  shan't.' 

'  And,  besides,  I  can't  see  you.     Do  take  it  off.' 

Now  he  had  begun  to  exercise  authority  over  her  he  became 
rather  intoxicated  by  his  sense  of  manly  power.  When  she 
obeyed  him  she  seemed  to  belong  to  him. 

*  But  the  light  hurts  me.' 

'  Only  at  first.  You  '11  get  accustomed  to  it.  I  'm  really 
going  to  reform  you.  Now  I  'm  with  you  in  the  wilds  I  begin 
to  understand  how  wrongly  you  Uve.' 

He  spoke  almost  chaffingly,  but  he  was  speaking  what  he  felt 
to  be  the  truth.  She  lifted  her  hands  and  slowly  took  off  the 
veil.  He  saw  that  since  she  had  been  upstairs  she  had  put 
more  powder  on  her  face. 

'You  want  the  wind,'  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  a  sort  of 
critical  and  half-rebuking  tenderness. 

They  set  out  towards  the  sands. 

The  sea  was  a  good  way  down  and  the  tide  was  falling.  Long 
lines  of  surf  chased  each  other  before  the  wind,  were  shredded 
out  into  spare,  tattered  edges  of  white,  faded  in  shallow  water, 
and  were  succeeded  by  other  anxious  waves,  whose  turn  for 
death   had  come.      Seagulls   flew    sideways  low  in   the  sky. 


FELIX  347 

On  the  horizon  there  was  a  faint  lemon  colour  against  the 
grey. 

'Isn't  it  splendid?'  Felix  said. 

Mrs.  Ismey  was  walking  rather  feebly,  bending  forward  to 
meet  the  wind,  and  sinking  at  each  step  in  the  soft  shingle 
which  preceded  the  firm  sands.  She  looked  like  a  person 
struggling  to  perform  an  unaccustomed  feat,  rather  pathetically 
incapable. 

'  Do  take  my  arm,'  Felix  said. 

'I ' 

Her  low  voice  was  lost  in  the  wind,  but  she  took  it.  They 
gained  the  hard  sand  and  walked  on  more  easily.  Felix  did 
not  speak  again  for  some  time.  The  touch  of  her  hand,  the 
warmth  of  her  arm  against  his  stirred  him  and  made  him  wish 
for  silence.  He  felt  his  strength  and  her  weakness  of  body, 
and  longed  to  put  his  arm  round  her.  His  love  suddenly 
became  physical,  startlingly  so.  At  that  moment  for  the  first 
time  he  sinned  in  desire  against  Mr.  Ismey.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  she  must  know  that  he  had  sinned,  and  he  looked  down 
at  her,  half  expecting  to  see  in  her  face  her  knowledge.  The 
wind  seemed  to  have  accentuated  her  features.  Her  cheek 
bones  looked  more  prominent,  her  eyes  more  hollow  than 
usual.  There  was  a  dark,  bluish  tint  beneath  them.  Her  lips 
were  pale  and  shut  firmly  together,  and  her  whole  aspect  was 
piteous  and  compressed. 

'  I  believe  you  hate  this,'  Felix  said. 

'It's  too  windy,' she  answered.  'It  tires  me.  Let  us  turn 
back.' 

He  obeyed  her  in  silence.  His  feeling  of  power  had  left 
him.     Her  weakness  governed  his — could  he  call  it  strength  ? 

As  soon  as  they  were  in  the  hotel  once  more  she  went 
upstairs,  saying  she  would  come  down  to  the  public  drawing- 
room  almost  directly.  Felix  went  in  there  to  wait  for  her. 
The  two  sisters,  whom  he  had  seen  at  dinner,  were  sitting  by 
the  fire  knitting  in  two  armchairs.  As  he  came  in  they  glanced 
up  at  him,  looked  at  each  other,  and  dropped  their  prominent 
eyes  upon  their  balls  of  worsted.  Their  faces  were  grim,  as  if 
they  had  just  seen  something  shocking.  He  took  up  a  paper, 
sat  down  at  some  distance  from  them  by  the  window,  which 
looked  out  on  the  road  of  shingle  and  the  sands  beyond,  and 
pretended  to  read.  In  reality  he  was  wondering  what  the  lives 
of  such  women  were  like.  Some,  many  minutes  passed,  yet 
Mrs.  Ismey  did  not  come  down.  He  began  to  feel  restless, 
presently  almost  angry.    All  the  morning  she  had  been  secluded. 


348  FELIX 

Was  she  going  to  remain  in  her  room  all  the  afternoon  ?  If  so, 
it  was  hardly  worth  while  asking  him  to  come.  What  could  she 
be  doing?  One  of  the  sisters  had  a  soft,  husky  cough.  It 
began  to  get  on  Felix's  nerves,  to  irritate  him  acutely.  Each 
time  she  coughed  he  felt  as  if  it  was  more  unpardonable  of 
Mrs.  Ismey  to  leave  him  alone  like  this.  He  tried  to  fix  his 
attention  on  the  paper,  which  he  held  in  front  of  his  face  so  as 
not  to  see  the  balls  of  worsted.  Would  she  never  come  ?  She 
had  spoilt  his  walk.  Now  she  was  going  to  spoil  his  whole 
day.  Another  ten  minutes  passed.  He  was  hot  with  im- 
patience. It  seemed  to  him  that  the  two  sisters  knew  that  he 
was  waiting  for  her,  and  were  full  of  sly,  malicious  amusement. 
The  click  of  their  knitting-needles  tormented  him  by  its 
monotonous  persistence.  He  longed  to  tell  them  to  go  out 
and  walk  in  the  wind.  Presently  he  resolved  that  he  would 
not  wait  any  longer.  He  would  go  to  the  billiard-room  and 
knock  the  balls  about.  Perhaps  the  man  with  the  ascetic  face 
was  there  and  would  play  a  hundred  up  with  him.  Anything 
would  be  better  than  sitting  with  these  two  observant  mutes  in 
the  black  dresses.  He  threw  down  the  paper,  and  was  just 
getting  up  to  go,  when  he  heard  the  faint  sound  of  shingle 
grating  under  footsteps  outside.  He  glanced  out  of  the  window 
and  saw  Mrs.  Ismey  hurrying  towards  the  beach.  She  was 
alone,  and  had  on  her  hat  but  no  jacket.  Her  dress  blew  out 
in  the  wind.  She  crossed  the  road,  walking  lightly  on  tiptoe 
like  a  person  anxious  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible,  and 
gained  the  loose  sand  at  the  place  where  they  had  been  that 
afternoon.  There  she  bent  down  and  went  forw  ,rd  as  if  she 
were  searching  for  something.  She  had  a  stick  in  her  hand, 
and  he  saw  her  moving  the  stones  with  it.  After  watching  her 
for  a  minute  he  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

The  two  sisters  exchanged  glances  of  virginal  pity,  and  the 
one  with  the  cough  sighed. 

Then  they  began  to  talk  together  softly. 

When  Felix  reached  the  hall  he  caught  up  his  overcoat,  put 
on  his  cap,  and  went  out,  shutting  the  door  with  difficulty 
behind  him.  The  wind  blew  every  moment  more  strongly.  A 
gale  was  evidently  coming  up  as  the  day  drew  on.  He  saw 
Mrs.  Ismey  farther  down  the  beach.  She  was  still  bending 
towards  the  sand  and  turning  over  the  stones  with  her  stick. 
There  was  something  anxious  in  her  attitude,  and  as  he  went 
towards  her  she  made  a  violent  movement,  like  a  person  in 
anger  or  despair.  Althougli  his  boots  crunched  on  the  stones 
she  was  too  absorbed  to  hear  them.     Only  when  he  put  out  his 


FELIX  349 

hand  and  touched  her  did  she  notice  him.  Then  she  started 
and  turned  round,  showing  a  face  that  frightened  him.  There 
was  a  fixed  expression  of  almost  furious  distress  in  her  eyes, 
and  it  did  not  change  when  they  met  his. 

'What  is  it?' he  said.  ' What  is  the  matter ?  You  will  catch 
your  death  of  cold.' 

He  put  his  coat  round  her  shoulders. 

'I've  lost  something,'  she  answered. 

And  the  horrible  anxiety  of  her  eyes  was  audible  in  her 
voice. 

'  What  is  it  ?     Let  me  find  it  for  you.' 

'Yes,  do  look.  It's  that  cigarette-case  Carrie  gave  me.  I 
had  it  with  me  when  we  were  walking,  and  now  it's  gone,  it's 
gone.' 

There  was  an  accent  of  despair  in  her  voice. 

'  Look,  look  ! '  she  continued.  '  It  was  here  we  were  walking. 
You  see  our  footsteps  in  the  sand.' 

And  she  again  bent  down,  and  began  searching  in  the  loose 
sand  and  among  the  stones.  She  turned  the  latter  over  feverishly 
with  the  point  of  her  stick,  and  kept  moving  forward,  taking 
small  steps.  Felix  joined  in  the  search.  Her  face  and  manner 
had  alarmed  him.  There  was  something  almost  ferocious  in 
her  anxiety,  something  crazy,  something — he  could  not  help 
saying  this  to  himself  against  his  will — wicked.  She  took  no 
further  notice  of  him  for  a  long  while,  but  several  times  he 
heard  her  say,  'Where  is  it  ?     Where  is  it?' 

'You  are  sure  you  had  it  with  you  when  we  were  walking?' 
he  asked  at  length. 

'Yes,  yes,  quite  sure,  quite.' 

'  On  your  chatelaine  ? ' 

'No,  it  was  in  the  front  of  my  gown,  tucked  in.  Where  can 
it  be  ?     Where  can  it  be  ? ' 

It  struck  him  as  strange  that  she  carried  a  cigarette-case  in 
the  front  of  her  gown. 

'  Look  here,'  he  said.  '  You  go  in  and  leave  me  to  find  it.  I 
know  you  hate  the  wind,  and  besides ' 

'No,  no.  The  wind's  nothing.  You  would  never  find  it. 
Don't  talk  to  me.' 

She  spoke  angrily  like  a  person  losing  all  self-control.  Felix 
went  on  searching  for  the  lost  object  in  silence.  He  was  hurt 
and  perjjlexed,  but  lon^'ed  to  restore  her  to  content.  The  wind 
blew  so  violently  that  it  was  difficult  to  see  well,  and  the  sand- 
grains,  carried  on  it,  pricked  his  face,  stung  his  skin  like  myriads 
of  insects.     At  length  he  began  to  feel  tired  out  with  the  inces- 


350  FELIX 

sant  bending  forward,  the  incessant  staring  which   the  flying 
sand-grains  made  so  painful. 

'  We  shall  never  find  it  in  this  wind,'  he  said.  *  The  sand 
must  have  blown  over  it  and  hidden  it.     Do  give  it  up.' 

'I  won't!'  she  exclaimed  bitterly.  *!  tell  you  I  must 
find  it.' 

'  But ' 

She  turned  on  him  savagely. 

'How  can  I  look  when  you  interrupt  me?*  she  cried  out. 
'  Go  to  the  hotel  and  find  Alice.  Send  her  here.  If  she  isn't 
in,  wait  till  she  comes  in,  and  send  her  at  once.     Go,  go  ! ' 

Felix  went  away  without  another  word.  He  felt  as  if  she  had 
struck  him,  hurt  to  the  soul.  He  was  utterly  confused  by  her 
manner,  and  the  fierce  wind  added  to  his  confusion  and  misery. 
When  he  reached  the  hotel,  he  asked  the  waiter  if  Mrs.  Ismey's 
maid  had  come  in. 

'  No,  sir,'  said  the  lad.     '  She  hasn't  been  gone  out  long.' 

'Please  tell  me  directly  she  comes  in,  directly — mind.' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

He  paused,  then  added  with  evident  curiosity: 

♦Can't  the  lady  find  it?' 

•Has  she  told  you?'  said  Felix. 

'  Yes,  sir,  and  the  housemaid.  She 's  turned  out  all  her  room, 
and  I  've  been  all  over  the  stairs  to  see  for  it.  I  s'pose  it 's 
worth  a  lot.  I  never  see  a  lady  in  such  a  taking.  Why,  she 
seems  pretty  near  crazed.' 

'  I  'm  in  the  billiard-room  when  the  maid  comes  in,*  said 
Felix  curtly. 

He  went  there,  sat  down  on  the  divan  which  skirted  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  waited.  A  long  time  passed.  It  was  actually 
an  hour,  but  it  seemed  to  him  like  a  whole  afternoon.  All  the 
time  he  waited  he  listened  to  the  wind.  He  felt  like  a  man 
who  has  received  a  wound  in  the  dark,  and  who  does  not  know 
its  exact  nature  or  why  he  has  received  it.  He  did  not  think 
much,  but  he  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
on  the  edge  of  greater  suffering,  and  as  if  he  were  also  on  the 
edge  of  complete  understanding.  He  would  see  the  wound 
in  the  light,  would  probe  it  himself,  would  know  why  he 
had  received  it.  He  was  certain  of  that.  All  the  rest  was 
uncertainty. 

'You  wished  to  see  me,  sir?'  said  a  faint  voice. 

Felix  started.  Alice  was  standing  there,  dressed  in  a  plain 
black  hat  and  jacket,  and  looking  at  him  with  her  small,  steady 
eyes. 


FELIX  851 

'Oh— yes/ 

He  got  up. 

*  Mrs.  Ismey  is  out  on  the  beach.' 

'  By  herself,  sir?' 

Alice  looked  very  much  surprised. 

'  She  wants  you  to  go  to  her  at  once.     She  *s  lost  something.' 

'  Lost  something,  sir  ?     What  is  it  ? ' 

'A  cigarette-case  that  Lady  Caroline ' 

Felix  stopped  short.  Alice's  face  had  suddenly  changed. 
She  looked  alarmed.     Felix  came  nearer  to  her. 

'  Alice,'  he  said,  '  what  is  really  the  matter  ?  You  know  and 
you  must  tell  me.' 

He  spoke  authoritatively,  not  curiously.  He  could  not  tell 
why,  but  this  matter,  apparently  so  trivial,  loomf^d  upon  him  now 
like  something  large,  terrible,  of  profound  importance. 

'  Oh,  sir,'  the  maid  answered,  '  surely  you  can  guess  by  this 
time  ! ' 

There  was  pity,  but  there  was  also  something  like  contempt 
in  her  voice. 

'  Guess  ! '  said  Felix.  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  is  there 
to  guess?' 

Alice  hesitated. 

•I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  give  my  lady  away,' she  murmured  at 
length,  '  not  for  anything.     But — well ' 

She  stopped. 

'Tell  me,'  Felix  said.     *  Tell  me.' 

'Why,  sir,  Mrs.  Ismey  keeps  her  morphia  in  that  cigarette- 
case.  If  she  don't  find  it  I  shall  have  an  awful  time  with  her 
to-night.' 

'  You — you  liar  ! '  said  Felix  passionately.     '  You  liar  ! ' 

He  raised  his  hand  as  if  he  were  going  to  strike  her.  But 
suddenly  a  floodgate  seemed  to  be  burst  open  in  his  brain  and 
to  set  free  a  torrent  of  memories.  His  hand  dropped  to  his 
side. 

'I  beg  your  pardon,  Alice,'  he  said. 

He  went  over  to  the  billiard  table,  rested  his  elbows  on  it, 
and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  Two  burning  tears  forced  them- 
selves between  his  eyelids. 

Something  within  him,  far  away  in  a  dark  place,  something 
inevorable  kept  saying  to  him,  'It's  true,  it's  true.' 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

LATE  that  evening,  long  after  the  dinner-hour  had  passed, 
and  the  two  sisters  had  ghded  sideways  from  their  table 
to  take  up  again  their  knitting  in  the  public  drawing-room, 
Felix  was  walking  heavily  on  the  sands  in  the  direction  of  the 
hotel.  He  had  been  out  alone  for  hours,  he  did  not  know  how 
many.  He  did  not  realise  now  what  time  of  night  it  was, 
scarcely  even  that  it  was  night.  But  he  knew  it  was  very  dark 
and  very  cold,  and  that  the  wind  was  howling.  He  knew,  too, 
that  the  lights  which  he  saw  in  the  distance  shone  in  the  house 
from  which  he  had  fled  when  Alice  hurried  out  of  the  billiard- 
room.  Yes,  his  going  had  been  a  flight.  He  had  stumbled 
down  the  corridor,  turning  his  face  to  the  wall,  almost  like  a 
child,  when  he  came  upon  the  waiter,  who  stared  after  him  with 
a  sort  of  sheepish  amazement.  Mechanically  he  had  caught  up 
his  cap  from  the  peg  on  which  it  was  hanging,  and  had  seized 
the  handle  of  the  hall  door.  It  was  a  patent  handle.  He  tried 
to  turn  it  in  vain.  He  struggled  with  it,  striving  to  keep  back 
the  scalding  tears  which  mounted  to  his  eyes  as  if  from  some 
reservoir  of  bitter  waters  hidden  deep  in  his  heart.  Then  he 
heard  the  heavy  patter  of  the  waiter's  feet  coming  along  the 
passage  and  made  some  frantic  movement.  The  door  burst 
open.  He  felt  the  wind  on  his  face,  down  which  the  tears 
were  running  despite  his  efforts  to  drive  them  back  to  their 
sources  ;  and  he  fled,  keeping  his  eyes  turned  away  from  that 
dreadful  searching  figure  on  the  beach,  fled  past  the  bungalows 
with  their  closed  shutters,  and  the  lifeboat  shed,  and  the  fisher- 
men's cottages,  in  front  of  which  lay  brown  nets  w  lighted  down 
with  stones  from  the  slope  of  shingle.  He  skirted  a  sandbank, 
and  the  place  to  which  he  had  travelled  so  eagerly  only  the  day 
before  was  hidden.  He  was  alone  with  the  grey  sky,  the  grey 
sea,  and  the  truth. 

He  faced  them  desperately,  almost  brutally.  He  stared  upon 
the  truth  as  a  man  staring  at  a  hideous  naked  figure,  marking 
every  ugly  blemish,  every  revolting  detail.  And  presently  the 
truth  seemed  to  hypnotise  him  as  an  object  presented  con- 

852 


FELIX  353 

tinuously  to  the  eyes  hypnotises  the  gazer.  He  knew  that  he 
was  still  looking  at  the  truth,  but  it  changed.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  enlarged,  sometimes  diminished.  Sometimes  it  vanished. 
Yet  it  was  there,  like  a  dreadful  thing  concealed  for  a  while  by 
gathering  darkness. 

He  walked  on  and  on  along  the  lonely  sands,  and  at  first  he 
was  filled  with  a  vague  intention.  He  meant  to  get  away  from 
the  hotel,  to  put  ever-increasing  stretches  of  sand  between  him 
and  it,  and  that  which  was  going  to  happen  in  it  to-night.  The 
maid's  last  words  haunted  his  mind.  Their  simplicity,  their 
colloquial  vulgarity  made  their  power.  Each  time  he  thought 
of  them,  repeated  them  to  himself,  his  imagination  conjured  up 
some  fresh  scene  of  terror.  He  saw  that  which  had  been  his 
holy  of  holies  turned  into  something  dreadful  as  a  brothel,  filthy 
as  a  church  which  human  deeds  have  made  a  shambles. 

And  then  he  hastened,  and  was  again  conscious  that  he  was 
in  flight. 

The  darkness  came  down  and  the  tide  began  to  flow.  He 
heard  its  voice  in  the  night  coming  up  the  sands  slowly, 
persistently,  but  he  heard  it  I'ke  a  partially  deaf  man.  His 
senses  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  injured  by  the  knowledge 
which  had  come  upon  him.  He  remembered  reading  once  in 
a  newspaper  of  a  great  explosion  which  had  made  some  men 
blind,  others  deaf,  others  speechless.  Surely  he  was  one  of  those 
men.  He  touched  himself  and  fancied  that  even  his  sense  of 
touch  was  affected.  Then  he  burst  out  laughing  all  alone  in  the 
dark.  How  ridiculous  life  was  !  He  went  on  and  on.  Perhaps 
he  would  have  walked  on  all  night  had  he  not  presently  come 
to  a  river  which  found  its  way  into  the  sea  a  few  miles  from 
Eldon  Sands.  He  had  set  his  feet  in  the  water  before  he  knew 
that  there  was  a  barrier  to  his  further  progress. 

The  river  was  wide  at  its  mouth  and  flowed  rapidly.  Here 
and  there  its  current  was  diverted  by  low  sandbanks,  and  there 
was  a  scurry  of  foam  where  it  met  the  advancing  waves  of  the 
sea.  Gulls  were  flying  low  over  the  waters,  and  far  off  the  red 
eye  of  a  lightship  winked.  Felix  stood  still  looking  at  the 
river  which  forcibly  changed  his  pur[iose.  The  farthest  thing 
that  he  could  see  or  imagine  was  the  red  eye  of  the  lightship, 
and,  for  a  moment,  all  he  felt  was  that  he  wished  to  be  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  able  to  pursue  his  journey  towards  it. 
Surely  it  was  at  the  end  of  the  world,  and  l)eyond  it  there  was 
nothingness,  tiie  precipitous  darkness  of  annihilation. 

But  there  was  the  river.  He  drew  back  and  turned  round, 
setting  his  face  towards  the  other  darkness  in  which  Eldon 
z 


354  FELIX 

Sands  lay  hidden.  And  then  suddenly,  and  for  no  apparent 
reason,  he  resolved  to  go  to  the  hotel,  to  see  her,  to  tear  to  pieces 
the  veil,  so  ragged  now,  which  still  hung  between  him  and  the 
whole  naked  horror  of  the  truth.  A  sort  of  savage  instinct 
possessed  him,  a  dogged  brutal  determination  to  go  down  into 
the  uttermost  recesses  of  his  hell.  'The  truth!  the  truth!'  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself,  as  he  walked  heavily  along  the  sands 
and  drew  near  to  the  hotel. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock.  There  were  no  lights  in  the  fisher- 
men's cottages,  but  in  the  hotel  there  were  lights.  One  shone 
in  an  upper  window.  He  thought  it  was  the  window  of  her 
bedroom.  What  was  going  on  there?  When  he  was  actually 
outside  the  hall  door  he  felt  physically  afraid  to  go  into  the 
hotel.  He  stood  for  some  minutes  trying  to  collect  himself. 
The  dogged  brutality  had  abruptly  left  him.  He  felt  that  his 
courage  was  an  out-of-doors  courage,  that  once  enclosed  within 
the  four  walls  of  a  house  his  nerves  would  betray  him.  At  last 
he  pushed  the  handle.  But  the  door  did  not  yield.  It  was 
evidently  locked.  He  waited  again  and  then  pulled  the  bell. 
After  two  or  three  minutes  he  heard  steps,  bolts  being  shot  back. 
The  door  opened,  and  he  saw  the  lighted  hall  and  the  waiter 
peering  out  at  him.  He  looked  past  the  waiter.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  expected  to  see. 

'  Oh,  it 's  you,  sir ! '  said  the  lad  in  a  surprised  tone. 

'Yes,'  Felix  said. 

He  stepped  in  softly  and  listened.  He  did  not  know  what 
he  expected  to  hear.  The  waiter  shut  the  door  and  shot  the 
bolts  again. 

'  Dinner 's  over  long  ago,  sir,'  he  said.  '  We  didn't  know 
where  you  was.' 

'  No,'  Felix  said. 

He  stood  in  the  hall  looking  at  the  waiter,  as  if  he  expected 
to  read  the  history  of  what  had  taken  place  during  his  absence 
in  the  lad's  eyes. 

'  What  time  is  it  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Just  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  sir.  I  suppose  you  want  something 
to  eat?' 

'Yes,  I  suppose  so,'  Felix  said. 

'  There  's  the  cold  beef  from ' 

'Yes,  yes.     That'll  do.' 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  hung  it  on  the  peg. 

'  Is — has  everybody  gone  to  bed  ? '  he  asked  slowly. 

*I  don't  think  as ' 

Just  then  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  dress  coming  along  the 


FELIX  855 

corridor  and  Mrs.  Ismey  appeared.  Felix  turned  round  and 
faced  her. 

*  I  '11  go  and  put  out  your  supper,  sir,'  said  the  waiter. 

Felix  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  looking  at  Mrs.  Ismey 
stupidly  and  blatantly.     She  was  smiling  brightly  at  him. 

'  Have  you  been  out  to  bathe?'  she  said  in  the  drawling  voice. 
'  It  wasn't  very  kind  of  you.     I  had  to  dine  all  alone.' 

'  I  see,'  he  said  slowly,  '  I  see  you  've  found  it.' 

'The  cigarette-case.  Yes.  I  was  in  a  dreadful  state  about 
it.  Carrie's  present,  you  see.  I  '11  come  and  sit  with  you  while 
you  eat.' 

She  turned  round  and  walked  towards  the  dining-room.  Felix 
followed  her.  It  was  very  strange,  he  thought,  her  slim  figure 
looked  as  graceful  as  usual,  her  thick  shining  hair  as  live  and 
beautiful.  When  he  came  into  the  dining-room,  and  saw  her 
face  in  the  lamplight,  it  seemed  untroubled.  Her  eyes  met  his. 
They  were  tired  eyes,  but  they  did  not  look  like  guilty  eyes. 

'  I  '11  sit  by  the  fire,'  she  said. 

She  ensconced  herself  in  one  of  the  armchairs  while  he  sat 
down  at  the  table.  The  waiter  brought  in  some  cold  beef  cut 
on  a  plate,  some  beetroot,  some  yellow  pickles  in  a  glass  jar,  a 
loaf  of  bread,  and  the  half-finished  bottle  of  wine  they  had  had 
at  lunch. 

'Is  there  anything  more  you  want,  sir?'  he  asked. 

'  No,  thanks.' 

'You  wouldn't  like  some  cheese?' 

'No,  thanks.' 

The  waiter  went  out,  trudging  sturdily  over  the  polished 
wooden  floor  in  his  soft  slippers.  Felix  took  up  his  knife  and 
fork  and  began  mechanically  to  eat.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  plate. 

'  Where  did  you  go?*  he  heard  Mrs.  Ismey  say. 

*To  the  river,'  he  replied. 

'The  river  !    I  didn't  know  there  was  one.    Is  it  far?' 

'  I  don't  know.' 

'I  thought  you  'd  got  tired  of  me  and  eloped  with  somebody.' 

He  went  on  eating,  and  looking  at  the  grey-blue  pattern  on 
his  plate. 

'The  wandering  spirits  were  tremendously  surprised  to  see 
me  at  dinner  all  by  myself.' 

'  Were  they  ? ' 

He  pourecl  out  some  wine,  drank  it,  and  filled  his  glass  again. 

'Yes.     D'you  know,  Felix,  I  believe  they  think ' 

'Don't  call  me  that,'  he  said. 


856  FELIX 

He  drank  the  second  glass  of  wine.  She  was  silent  for  a 
moment.     Then  she  said  : 

*  But  I  always  do.     Why  not?* 

He  got  up  and  rang  the  bell  without  answering  her. 

'  Bring  me  a  glass  of  brandy,  please,'  he  said,  when  the  waiter 
came. 

*A  liqueur  glass,  sir?' 

'  Yes.     And  you  can  take  away.     I  shan't  eat  anything  more.' 

'Yes,  sir.' 

He  came  to  the  fire  and  sto  'd  there  in  silence  till  the  waiter 
brought  the  brandy.  Mrs.  Ismey  did  not  say  anything  either. 
When  Felix  had  drunk  the  brandy  tlie  waiter  began  to  clear 
away.  He  was  rather  slow,  but  at  last  he  had  finished,  gone  out 
and  shut  the  door.    Then  Felix  said  : 

'  Look  here — I  know.' 

He  spoke  in  a  hard,  unboyish  voice,  looking  straight  into  the  fire. 

'  Know  ! '  Mrs.  Ismey  said.  '  What  do  you  mean  ?  Are  you 
angry  with  me  because  I  sent  you  in  to  fetch  Alice  this 
afternoon  ? ' 

'  I  know  that  you  take  morphia,'  he  said. 

Mrs.  Ismey  began  to  laugh,  as  if  she  were  really  amused. 

'  My  dear  boy  !     Why,  what ' 

'  Stop  that ! '  he  said  brutally.     '  How  dare  you  laugh  ? ' 

In  the  last  sentence  his  voice  lost  its  hardness  and  began  to 
quiver. 

'  I  can't  bear  it,'  he  said.  *  I  can't  bear  it !  If  you  laugh  I 
shall— I  shall ' 

He  stopped  speaking  and  clenched  his  hands  together.  Sobs 
rose  in  his  throat,  but  he  choked  them  down.  He  heard  a 
sharp  rustle,  as  Mrs.  Ismey  got  up  from  her  chair,  and  felt  two 
hands  laid  on  his  arm. 

'  Oh  don't — don't ! '  he  said  brokenly. 

'Btit,  Felix,  you  are  mad ' 

Suddenly  he  looked  down  at  the  hands  that  were  holding  him. 
They  were  filthy.     Pie  seized  them. 

'  Look  ! '  he  said.     '  Look  !  and  don't  tell  me  any  more  lies.' 

She  stood  there  staring  at  her  hands,  which  he  held  up  near 
to  her  eyes.  He  let  go  of  them  at  last  and  they  dropped  to  her 
sides. 

Don't  tell  me  any  more  lies,'  he  repeated.     *I  love  you.' 

He  had  never  thought  that  if  he  told  her  his  secret  he  would 
tell  it  like  that.  She  moved  away  from  him,  sank  down  in  the 
chair  from  vfhich  she  had  just  got  up,  and  began  to  cry,  weakly, 
despairingly,  almost  as  a  baby  cries  when   it   is  feeble  from 


FELIX  857 

suffering  which  it  cannot  express  in  words.  Presently  he  looked 
down  at  her.  Siie  had  partially  turned  in  the  big  chair,  so  that 
she  had  one  shoulder  against  the  back  of  it,  and  her  face  pressed 
sideways  upon  the  cushion.  Her  body  shook  slightly.  Those 
horrible  hands,  protruding  from  the  sleeves  of  her  pretty  gown, 
lay  palm  downwards  against  her  knee  with  the  black  nails 
exposed.     He  looked  at  them  and  repeated  with  wonder : 

'Yes,  I  love  you.' 

How  could  that  be  true,  that  thing  incredible?  And  yet  it 
was  true.  He  did  love  her,  now,  at  this  moment.  And  he  had 
presumed  to  think  that  he  understood  men,  women,  perhaps 
even  himself.  She  went  on  crying.  Presently  she  moved  one 
of  her  hands,  and  began  to  feel  at  the  back  of  her  gown.  She 
drew  out  a  tiny  pocket-handkerchief  edged  with  lace  and  put  it 
up  to  her  eyes.  He  smelt  perfume,  the  same  curious  perfume 
he  had  smelt  when  he  drove  with  her  and  Lady  Caroline  in  the 
brougham  to  the  Standard  Music  Hall.  It  had  given  him  dreams 
then.  It  filled  him  with  remembrances  now.  While  he  looked 
at  her  he  saw  something  gleam  in  the  front  of  her  dress.  He 
bent,  then  knelt  quickly  down  on  the  floor  by  her  and  put  up  his 
hand  to  her  bosom.  She  turned  sharply  and  clasped  her  two 
hands  over  his. 

'What  are  you  doing?'  she  said  between  her  sobs.  'No — 
no ' 

But  he  overcame  her  with  his  greater  strength,  drew  the 
cigarette-case  from  its  hiding-place,  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 
When  he  came  into  the  hotel  he  had  not  known  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  he  had  not  known  even  fully  what  he  felt.  Now, 
suddenly,  he  knew,  knew  how  much  he  loved  her,  in  what  course 
his  love  would  lead  him. 

'Give  it  me  back,'  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  broken  fierceness. 
'Give  it  me  back  !' 

'  No,'  he  said. 

She  was  sitting  up  in  the  chair,  leaning  forward  to  him  with 
her  hands  stretched  out. 

'  It's  mine,'  she  said.     '  You  can't  keep  it.     I  will  have  it.' 

He  went  to  the  window,  opened  it  swiftly,  and  flung  the 
cigarette-case  far  out  into  the  darkness.  She  had  followed  him 
and  uttered  a  cry  which  s(jundcd  like  a  cry  of  despair.  Just 
then  the  door  was  opened  and  Alice  came  in.  She  heard  Mrs. 
Ismey's  exclamation. 

*0h,  ma'am,  what  is  it?'  she  said,  coming  (juickly  forward. 

'He's  thrown  it  away  1'  Mrs.  Ismey  cried  out,  in  a  terrible 
sharp  voice. 


358  FELIX 

Felix  was  shutting  the  window. 

'Sir,'  said  Alice,  'what  have  you  done?' 

'Right,'  he  said. 

The  maid  seemed  startled  by  the  authority  of  his  manner. 
Although  terribly,  even  passionately  excited,  he  spoke  with  a 
sort  of  iron  calmness.  The  boy  in  him  had  vanished.  His 
manner,  his  look,  the  sound  of  his  voica — all  were  manly, 
dominating.  Mrs.  Ismey,  whose  face  was  distorted  with  agita- 
tion, and  marred  by  the  tears  which  ran  down  leaving  channels 
in  the  paint  and  powder  on  her  cheeks,  glanced  at  him  sideways, 
and  then  suddenly  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  Alice 
made  a  movement  to  follow  her. 

'Stop,  Alice,'  Felix  said.     'I  must  speak  to  you.' 

'  I '11  come  back,  sir,' she  answered.  'But  I  must  see  where 
she  goes.     You  don't  understand.' 

She  hastened  after  Mrs.  Ismey.  Felix  remained  by  the 
window.  There  was  a  wide  wooden  seat  under  it,  and  he  sat 
down,  rested  his  head  in  his  hands  and  shut  his  eyes.  There 
were  pulses  beating  in  his  temples  and  in  his  eyelids.  After  two 
or  three  minutes  he  heard  a  slight  noise  and  glanced  up.  The 
waiter  was  looking  in  at  the  door. 

*  I  beg  pardon,  sir,'  he  said.  '  I  thought  you  was  gone,  and 
came  to  see  to  the  lamp.' 

'  Go  to  bed  if  you  want  to,'  Felix  said.  *  I  'm  sitting  up  a 
little  longer.     I  '11  put  it  out.' 

'Thank  you,  sir.     Then  I  will  go.' 

He  concealed  a  yawn  with  his  broad,  red  hand  and  dis- 
appeared. When  Alice  returned  she  found  Felix  still  sitting  by 
the  window.  She  came  into  the  room  leaving  the  door  wide 
open. 

'You  might  just  shut  the  door,  Alice,'  he  said. 

'  No,  sir,  I  can't.  Everybody 's  gone  to  bed,  and  I  must  leave 
it  open  to  hear  if  she  comes  down.  She's  locked  herself  in  her 
room  now,  but  she  might.' 

He  shivered. 

'  No  wonder  you  're  a  bit  upset,  sir,'  said  the  girl,  with  quiet 
sympathy,  coming  up  to  the  table.  '  But  you  shouldn't  have 
done  it.' 

'  Done  what? ' 

'Thrown  the  stuff  away.' 

'  It 's  killing  her,'  he  said  slowly.     '  Isn't  it  ? ' 

'  I  know,  sir ;  but  she  'd  die  if  she  was  cut  off  from  it.  She  did 
very  near  die  at  Christmas,  and  then  there  was  the  doctors  with 
her,  and  it  was  done  gradual.' 


FELIX  859 

Felix  was  silent  for  a  minute.  His  lips  felt  dry  and  paralysed. 
At  last  he  said  : 

'Sit  down,  Alice,  please.     I  must  talk  to  you.' 

'  Very  well,  sir.  But  please  to  come  nearer  the  door  so  as  I 
can  hear  if  she  should  try  to  get  out.' 

Felix  got  up.  He  carried  two  of  the  dining-room  chairs  to 
the  door,  and  they  sat  down  close  together  where  they  could  see 
the  dark  corridor  in  which  the  waiter  had  extinguished  the 
lamps. 

'Alice,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything,'  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  '  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  know,  because,  perhaps,  I  can 
help.' 

The  maid  looked  at  him  with  her  small,  steady  eyes. 

'  I  'd  thought  of  that,  sir,'  she  said.  '  I  nearly  spoke  up  to  you 
more  than  once.' 

'  I  remember,'  he  said. 

Everything  in  the  past  was  becoming  clearer  now. 

'She  seemed  to  think  a  lot  of  you,  and  I  didn't  know  what  to 
do.     I  was  so  afraid  of  Mr.  Ismey  finding  out.' 

'But  he  did  find  out.' 

'Yes,  sir,  at  last  through  that  Paris  business.  I  told  my  lady 
he  would,  but  she  was  crazy  to  go.' 

'  Why  ? ' 

'  Why,  to  visit  them  morphia  clubs  as  they  call  them.  What  is 
it,  sir?     You  do  look  white.' 

'Nothing.  Go  on.  And  she — Mrs.  Ismey,  went  to  those 
places?' 

'Yes,  sir.  One  day  her  ladyship — Lady  Caroline,  sir,  and 
me — had  to  go  after  her  to  get  her  away.  She  wouldn't  come, 
though.  There's  no  doing  anything  with  her  wlicn  she's  got 
one  of  her  morphia  fits  on  her.  You  wouldn't  believe  the 
change.' 

'  I  saw  her  to-day  on  the  beach. 

'She's  like  a  mad  thing.  When  Mr.  Ismey  found  out — he'd 
been  suspecting  something  wrong,  oh,  for  ever  such  a  time,  but 
didn't  know  what  it  was — he  called  in  the  doctors  and  jiut  her 
under  treatment.  He  said  if  she  didn't  go  under  treatment  he'd 
leave  hei,  and  she  was  that  afraid  of  the  scandal  she  give 
in.  They  did  it,  sir — the  taking  away  of  the  morphia  from  her, 
— gradual,  but  even  with  that  she  nearly  died.  You  never  saw 
anything  like  it.  I  pitied  her,  sir,  with  all  my  heart  I  did.  The 
sickness  was  something  awful,  and  the  cold.  We  used  to  heap 
her  with  blankets,  and  have  the  fire  blazing  day  and  night,  but 
nothing  would  do.     She  was  shivering,  and  her  teeth  chattering, 


360  FELIX 

and  her  body  all  gooseflesh,  as  you  may  say,  and  screaming  out 
that  there  was  ice  in  her  very  bones.  And  sometimes  she'd 
yawn — that  was  awful,  sir — for  hours  at  a  time,  and  nothing 
could  stop  it.  Her  face  was  that  twisted  up  she  didn't  look  her- 
self. Her  own  husband  wouldn't  have  known  her.  She  mi^^ht 
have  been  any  old  woman.  And  then  she'd  seem  as  if  she  was 
going  right  out.  That  was  when  the  circulation  went  wrong. 
She  'd  be  all  in  a  sweat  from  top  to  toe,  and  nearly  suffocating. 
I  had  to  hold  her  up  on  the  pillows  like  you  might  a  baby. 
And  there  was  other  things,  worse  than  that,  that  I  couldn't  tell 
to  a  gentleman.  But  it  was  hell  for  my  poor  lady,  sir,  that  it 
was.  Mr.  Ismey  he  went  away  at  last.  He  couldn't  stand  it, 
hearing  her  crying  and  shrieking  out  for  the  morphia  hour 
after  hour.  The  doctors  made  him  go.  And  doesn't  she  hate 
him  now  for  what  she  went  through?  Sometimes,  I  think,  if 
she  could  get  the  chance,  she'd  kill  him,  and  I  believe  he 
knows  it  too.' 

Alice  was  silent.  She  looked  through  the  doorway  into  the 
corridor,  listened,  then  got  up  and  stepped  out.  Felix  watched 
her  in  silence.  He  felt  stupid,  like  a  man  who  has  overtaxed 
his  brain  by  work. 

'I  thought  I  heard  her,  sir,'  said  Alice,  coming  back.  'But 
it  must  have  been  fancy.' 

'Wasn't  she  cured  ?'  Felix  asked  with  an  effort. 

'Just  for  the  time,  sir.  But  now  it's  as  bad  as  ever,  and 
worse,  as  if  the  being  without  had  given  her  an  appetite  ae  you 
may  say.  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her.  The  dirt  k  some- 
thing dreadful,  and  tearing  her  dresses  to  pieces,  and  the 
breaking  most  everything  she  touches.  Why,  even  the  servants 
here  are  asking  what  it  is.  And  she  don't  care  now  whether 
the  needle's  clean  or  not.  She's  in  a  shocking  state,  sir.  She 
couldn't  never  wear  a  low  dress  again.  And  her  money — why, 
she  's  borrowed  even  of  the  men-servants  to  pay  that  chemist 
where  she  goes  in  Wigmore  Street.  And  now,  as  often  as  not, 
when  she  takes  the  morphia  she'll  leave  the  needle  in.  She 
never  used  to  do  that.' 

'  Leave  it  in  ?     But — no,  never  mind.     Don't  tell  me.' 

He  bei^an  to  feel  physically  sick.  Alice  looked  at  him  with 
compassion. 

'It  used  to  turn  my  stomach,  sir,  too,' she  said.  'And  no 
wonder.' 

'  But  Lady  Caroline  ? '  Felix  asked.  '  She  doesn't — does  she 
take  morphia?' 

'Lord,  yes,  sir,  regular.  Why,  it  was  she  put  my  lady  on  to 
it  at  the  first.' 


FELIX  8G1 

*  Ah,  it  was  she!* 

A  flash  of  happiness,  almost  of  triumph,  came  to  him.  After 
all  Mrs.  Ismey  had  sometimes  told  him  the  truth  ! 

'Yes,  sir.  But  her  ladyship's  quite  different  from  my  lady, 
and  only  takes  a  little,  just  the  same  each  day,  and  never 
increases.  And  my  lady  wouldn't  have  any  one  know  what 
she 's  after,  not  for  all  the  world.  But  her  ladyship  almost  glories 
in  it,  as  you  might  say.  If  she  had  her  way  she  'd  make  every 
one  do  as  she  does.  Why,  she's  taught  her  maid,  Mrs.  Smart, 
to  inject  the  filthy  stuff.  And  the  dog — but  you've  seen  the 
dog,  sir?' 

'  The  dog  ! '  Felix  said.     '  Chicho — d'  you  mean  Chicho  ?  ' 

A  feeling  of  horror  came  over  him  such  as  he  had  not  felt 
before. 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'  But  what  ?     Go  on,  go  on,  I  tell  you  ! ' 

'Her  ladyship  gives  it  to  the  dog,  sir,  regular.' 

Felix  had  become  deadly  pale.  He  got  up  hastily,  went  over 
to  the  window,  threw  it  open  and  leaned  out.  The  strong  sea 
air  blowing  upon  his  face,  the  wide  darkness  that  held  the  sound 
of  the  sea,  the  knowledge  of  night,  nature,  stars,  eternal  things 
that  came  to  him  as  he  pushed  aside  man's  barrier,  one  of  the 
many  which  he  sets  up  between  him  and  that  which  he  cannot 
understand,  were  so  blessed  to  Felix  just  then  that  he  longed  to 
be  one  with  the  mysteries  of  God,  to  be  dead  for  ever  to  the 
mysteries  of  men.  But,  almost  like  the  unborn  child  in  the 
womb  of  the  mother,  the  love  stirred  in  his  heart,  as  if  it 
stretched  itself,  pushed  softly  against  the  surrounding  walls. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room.  Alice  was  just  going  out  at 
the  doorway. 

'  I  hear  her,  sir ! '  she  whispered  to  him.  '  She  's  coming 
down.     I  thought  she  would.' 

Felix  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  her,  and  went  quickly  over 
to  her. 

'  D'  you  hear,  sir  ? '  she  whi'^pered. 

Felix  listened,  and  heard  a  very  faint,  stealthy  noise,  a  creak 
of  wood  yielding  beneath  some  light  pressure,  and  then,  in  a 
moment,  another  sound  which  he  did  not  understand. 

'  She  's  ])ulling  back  the  bolts,  sir !     Let  me  po  ! ' 

The  maid  darted  out  into  tlie  blackness  of  the  corridor. 

There  was  a  sound  of  struggling,  then  of  a  loud  shrill  scream- 
ing. Felix  put  his  hands  over  his  ears,  and  turned  his  back  Wo 
the  open  door. 

But  that  ch'M  ofliis  <^tirred  again  in  i*s  prison. 

He  dropped  his  hands  and  followed  Alice. 


CHAPTER     XXVII 

BEFORE  Felix  left  London  for  Eldon  Sands  he  had  invited 
Paul  Chalmers  to  dine  with  him  in  his  flat  on  the  day  of 
his  return,  the  Monday.  He  wished  to  encourage  Chalmers,  to 
cheer  him  up.  Things  were  going  very  badly  with  the  ex-piano- 
tuner.  His  year  at  Sam's  school  had  come  to  an  end  just  before 
Christmas,  when  his  smiling  preceptor  had  most  happily  bowed 
him  out  to  his  fate  in  the  world  of  literature.  Sam  had  been 
very  agreeable  at  this  last  interview,  but  he  had  not  given 
Chalmers  any  introductions  to  editors. 

'  Knock  at  the  door,  Mr.  Chalmers,'  he  had  said.  '  Keep  on 
knocking  at  the  door.  Make  them  feel  that  they  can't  get  on 
without  you.  Bother  them.  I  did,  and  here  I  am  to-day.  Why 
should  not  you  be  here  to-morrow  ? ' 

He  sank  down  in  his  easy-chair  and  returned  serenely  to 
Carlyle's  Miscellatties,  while  Chalmers  put  on  his  big  top-hat, 
packed  his  manuscripts  into  his  shabby  bag,  and  tramped  out  to 
meet  his  future. 

That  future  did  not  promise  to  be  very  bright.  For  more 
than  two  months  now  he  had  been  trying  to  make  the  news- 
paper proprietors  and  the  editors  of  London  feel  that  they  could 
no  longer  get  on  without  him.  He  found  them  strangely 
unaware  of  their  necessitous  condition.  Not  one  had  waked  to 
the  great  fact,  that  Mr.  Chalmers's  presence  in  his  office  was  the 
only  thing  which  could  save  his  newspaper  from  the  ruin  im- 
pending. Chalmers  had  knocked  at  the  door  and  been  bowed 
into  the  street.  He  had  endeavoured  to  '  bother  them.'  Pos- 
sibly his  methods  were  not  sufficiently  aggressive,  or  were  too 
little  enticing.  Certainly  they  were  not  successful.  His  Aus- 
tralian aunt's  windfall  was  on  the  point  of  exhaustion,  and  he 
had  gained  no  footing  in  the  literary,  no  standing  room  in  the 
journalistic  world.  His  articles,  written  daily,  had  been  daily 
rejected.  He  had  not  earned  one  penny  since  Sam's  door 
swung  back  behind  him.  Unfortunately  he  could  not  afford  to 
wait  for  an  income.  Matters  were  becoming  desperate  with 
him.     One  day  he  happened  to  meet  Felix  in  the  street,  and 

862 


FELIX  863 

Felix,  struck  by  the  flaming  anxiety  in  his  curiously  expressive 
face,  and  guessing  its  reason,  invited  him  to  dinner,  with  some 
vague,  kindly  intention  of  trying  to  make  him  a  little  happier, 
of  'cheering  the  poor  chap  up.'  Between  the  giving  of  the 
invitation  and  the  dinner  happened  the  incidents  at  Eldon 
Sands.  From  those  incidents  Felix  travelled,  on  the  Monday, 
to  take  up  again  his  London  life.  When  he  reached  his  flat  and 
saw  on  his  writing-table  his  engagement-list,  with  Chalmers's 
name  against  that  day,  he  sat  down  hastily  to  put  him  off.  But, 
as  he  drew  the  telegraph-form  towards  him,  he  thought  of  a 
lonely  evening,  of  what  it  would  mean  to  him  just  then.  He 
sent  no  telegram.  At  eight  the  table  in  the  little  sitting-room 
was  laid  for  two ;  at  five  minutes  past  eight  the  Chinese  idols 
saw  the  rather  elaborate  entrance  of  Chalmers  in  peculiar 
evening-dress. 

He  shook  hands  with  Felix  nervously.  His  precarious  posi- 
tion and  utter  lack  of  success  had  greatly  increased  his  natural 
sensitiveness.  He  had  been  so  often  shown  into  the  street  that 
he  could  not  help  being  on  the  defensive,  even  with  one  who 
was  obviously  his  friend.  To-night,  at  first  Felix  was  not  obser- 
vant. Chalmers  seemed  to  him  a  gaunt  and  rather  ridiculous 
shadow,  for  a  moment  the  nearest  to  him  of  the  shadows  of  life. 
All  that  he  hoped  for  from  Chalmers  was  an  evening's  faint 
distraction.  In  the  beginning  he  had  invited  him  with  the 
intention  of  trying  to  detach  him  for  a  little  while  from  his 
sorrows.  Now  he  found  himself  sick  with  the  desire  to  be — not 
comforted,  that  was  totally  impossible — driven  away  for  a  short 
hour  from  the  tragic  spectre  which  had  travelled  with  him  from 
Eldon  Sands.  He  had  been  disposed  to  play  the  comforter, 
but  that  was  long  ago. 

They  sat  down  at  the  small  oval  table.  Chalmers  was  dressed 
in  a  glistening  suit  of  broadcloth,  with  a  ribbed  shirt-front  and 
a  made-up  tie.  From  his  ill-fitting  waistcoat  escaped  the  end 
of  a  voluminous  red  silk  pocket-handkerchief.  His  shirt-cuffs 
were  fastened  with  huge  metal  buttons,  on  which  appeared 
Britannia's  head.  Felix  noticed  none  of  these  details.  The 
horror  of  the  night  was  still  upon  him  like  a  thick  cloud,  in 
which  all  the  world  was  involved. 

'How  are  you  getting  on?'  he  said  to  Chalmers  presently, 
trying  to  force  himself  to  be  curious  at  least,  if  not  to  care. 

'Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Wilding,'  replied  his  guest,  with  an  attempt 
at  ease  and  cheerfulness,  'pretty  middling,  pretty  middling.  I 
take  it  that  no  man  can  expect  to  make  his  mark  right  away,  as 
it  were.' 


364  FEMX 

He  shot  his  cuffs,  and  stroked  his  red-brown  moustaches  and 
whiskers  with  large  nervous  hands. 

'  Patience,  Mr.  Wilding,  patience  is  what  we  want.  The 
strong  man  is  ever  patient.     Is  not  that  so? ' 

'  I  dare  say,'  said  Felix. 

*  Look  at  Carlyle,  at  Mr.  Brov,  ning,  and  many  another.  Did 
they  reach  the  goal  at  once  ?  No,  no.  And  should  we,  you 
and  I,  Mr.  Wilding,  be ' 

'  Look  here,  Chalmers,'  Felix  suddenly  interrupted,  in  an 
odd,  hard  voice.     'Some  time  ago  I  met  King  Marshall.' 

'Mr.  Marshall,  the  celebrated  writer  of  books,  Mr.  Wilding?' 

'  Yes.  And  d'  you  know  what  he  said  to  me,  what  advice  he 
gave  me  about  life?  He  said  :  "Try  to  see  what  is  and  to  think 
about  it  naturally." ' 

'  My  idea  precisely,  Mr.  Wilding,  my  constant  endeavour.' 

'  Look  the  truth  in  the  face.  That 's  what  we  've  got  to  do. 
Look  it  in  the  face  for  others,  but  most  especially  for  ourselves.' 

Most  certainly,  Mr.  Wilding.  I  am  of  the  same  opinion,  I 
do  assure  you.' 

'  Well,  and  Antonino  Marza  said  to  me  another  day  :  "  Don't 
think  yourself  bound  to  do  anything  that  you  hate.  Every  time 
we  do  anything  that  we  hate  we  do  ourselves  an  injury."' 

'  No  doubt,  Mr.  Wilding,  no  doubt  of  it  at  all.' 

'  Ah,  bur.  don't  you  see  that  King  Marshall  and  Marza  are  in 
conflict  ? ' 

'  Two  such  great  men,  Mr.  Wilding  !  Oh,  surely  impossible  ! ' 
exclaimed  Chalmers,  beginning  to  look  confused,  and  to  pat  the 
tablecloth  with  his  bony  fingers. 

'  Yes,  they  are,  for  to  three-quarters  of  us  there  is  nothing 
more  hateful  than  looking  the  truih  in  the  face.  Which  of  us 
does  it  ?    Which  of  us  is  not  afraid  to  do  it  ? ' 

'  Oh,  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Wilding,  I  hope  not,  truly.' 

'  Chalmers,'  said  Felix,  with  a  hot  earnestness  which  startled 
his  guest,  '  I  've  seldom  known  what  the  truth  is  in  my  life,  and 
sometimes,  when  I  have,  I  've  turned  my  back  on  it.  I  've 
glozed  it  over.  But  something's  just  happened— never  mind 
what — which  has  changed  me  most  awfully,  and  changed  me  for 
ever.  I  don't  know  a  bit  what  it's  made,  or  going  to  make  of 
me,  but  I  do  know  that  King  Marshall  must  be  right  and  Marza 
wrong.  We've  no  business  to  shut  out  from  us  everything  that 
we  hate,  never  to  do  what  we  hate  doing,  when  to  do  it  v.  ould 
make  what  is  true  clearer.  Now  I  W%  done  that  before  and  J 
meant  to  do  it  to-night.' 

'  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Wilding  ? ' 


FELIX  865 

'I  meant  to  gloze  over  the  truth  with  you.* 

'Indeed,  Mr.  Wilding  !     May  I  ask  how  so?' 

Chalmers  drummed  more  feverishly  upon  the  tablecloth,  and 
rolled  his  great  eyes  anxiously.  Felix  glanced  at  him  and  then 
looked  away.  If  he  had  not  been  suffering  so  much  himself  he 
could  not  have  gone  on,  but  to-night  he  felt  a  sort  of  desperate 
desire  to  torture  himself  still  more  in  the  cause  of  truth.  He 
was  full  of  a  wild,  an  almost  frantic  horror  of  lies.  He  knew 
he  had  originally  invited  Chalmers  to  dine  with  some  vague 
intention  of  buoying  him  up  with  soothing  words.  Liar  !  He 
called  himself  that  now  as  he  thought  of  this  intention,  and  he 
put  it  aside  with  a  sort  of  angry  vehemence. 

'  Chalmers,'  he  said,  '  I  'm  going  to  hurt  you.  You  '11  have  to 
forgive  me.  I  've  been  hurt  myself  by  the  truth  before  now. 
Tell  me,  since  you  left  Sam's  you  haven't  got  on,  have  you  ? ' 

Chalmers's  strange  and  violent  face  began  to  twitch,  but  he 
still  strove  to  preserve  his  rather  extravagant  air  of  leonine 
intellectuality. 

'  We  must  give  it  time,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  began,  with  a  sweep 
of  the  hand.     'We  must ' 

'  You  haven't  got  on  ! ' 

Chalmers  sat  back  in  his  chair.  An  abrupt,  piteous  expression 
came  into  his  eyes. 

'  Well,  no,  truly,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  said,  looking  down. 

'Honestly,  do  you  think  you  ever  will?  do  you  think  you  are 
fitted  to  ? ' 

'  I — I — certainly  I — we  all  have  our  moments  of  doubt,  Mr. 
Wilding,  but  we  must  not  give  way  to  them.    All  great  men * 

'  Yes.  But  you  and  I  aren't  great  men,  Chalmers,  and  we 
know  it.     We  are  small  men,  very  small.' 

He  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  bitter  em[)hasis.  Chalmers 
was  silent.  He  sat  there  with  both  his  large,  knotted  hands 
lying  on  the  table  on  either  side  of  his  plate.  His  face  looked 
suddenly  old  and  desperate. 

'Mr.  Wilding,'  he  said  at  last,  in  a  loud  and  faltering  voice, 
'  I  can't  go  back  to  tuning,  I  really  can't.  My  soul  turns  right 
from  it,  that  it  does.     I  may  not  be  as  gifted  as  some ' 

'Do  you  think  you  are  gifted  at  all,'  Felix  interrupted,  'for 
literature  ? ' 

'  Don't  the  love  of  it  mean  something,  Mr.  Wilding  ? ' 

'  The  love  of  a  thing  doesn't  necessarily  mean  that  one  is 
gifted  to  understand  it.     I  know  that  well.' 

'I  can't  go  back  to  the  tuning,  Mr.  Wilding,  I  really  can't!' 
Chalmers  repeated,  with  a  sort  of  terror  which,  to  some  people, 


S66  FELIX 

might  have  seemed  ludicrous,  considering  its  cause,  but  which 
was  not  ludicrous  to  Felix. 

'  Isn't  it  better  to  do  the  thing  one  can  do  well  than  to  try  to 
do  the  thing  one  has  no  power  to  do  ? '  said  Felix. 

Afterwards  at  a  great  crisis  he  remembered  saying  those 
words,  and  grew  hot  with  shame  at  his  own  ignorance  of  him- 
self, at  his  audacity  in  daring  to  speak  as  he  spoke  that  night  to 
Chalmers. 

'  Chalmers,'  he  continued,  '  you  '11  never  succeed  as  a  writer. 
Sam  knows  it,  the  whole  school  knows  it,  and  you  know  it  too. 
That's  truth.     Look  it  in  the  face.' 

Chalmers  dropped  his  head  till  his  chin  touched  his  breast. 

'Then  am  I  to  go  back,  Mr.  Wilding?'  he  said  huskily. 
'Am  I  to  go  back  truly  to  tuning? ' 

If  anything  could  have  seemed  strange  to  Felix  after  the  last 
night  at  Eldon  Sands,  that  evening's  intimate  talk  with  Chalmers 
would  have  seemed  strange.  He  would  formerly  have  thought 
it  impossible  that  two  human  beings  so  different  could  have 
been  brought  into  such  complete  accord  for  a  time  merely 
because  each  was  stricken  by  sorrow.  The  barrier  having  been 
broken  down  Chalmers  revealed  to  its  depth  his  hitherto  secret 
misery  at  his  own  utter  incompetence  for  the  career  to  which 
all  his  ambition  flowed.  He  was  grotesque  in  revelation,  but 
he  was  so  sincere  that  Felix  was  not  conscious  of  that.  They 
talked  for  a  long  time,  and  Felix,  while  giving  sympathy,  felt  as 
if  he  were  receiving  it.  He  wondered  afterwards  at  that,  for  he 
did  not  reveal  his  sorrow,  did  not  tell  Chalmers  that  there 
seemed  to  him  that  night  to  be  a  mighty  cloud  in  the  room,  a 
cloud  in  which  lights  were  dim  and  even  sounds  were  muffled. 
At  last,  when  the  clocks  were  striking  twelve,  Chalmers  got  up 
to  go.  Drops  of  perspiration  stood  on  his  forehead.  He  wiped 
them  away  with  the  red  silk  handkerchief. 

'I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you  very  late,  Mr.  Wilding,'  he  said 
apologetically.  '  But — well,  I  do  get  carried  away  so  by  any 
kindness.     I  'm  sure  I  ask  pardon.' 

Felix  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat.     He  choked  it  down. 

'It's  all  right,  Chalmers,'  he  said.  'But  about  kind- 
ness— that 's  utter  rot.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  been  rather  a  brute  to 
you.' 

'Telling  me  the  truth.     Well,  sir ' 

'Don't  call  me  "sir"!' 

*  Mr.  Wilding,  truth  is  sometimes  hard,  and  no  mistake  about 
it.     To  face  the  tuning  again ' 

He  had  on  his  overcoat,  and  was  holding  the  big  top-hat  in 


FELIX  S67 

his  hand.  His  feverish  eyes  stared  fixedly  at  Felix  with  a  sort 
of  haggard  appeal. 

'It  ain't — aren't  much  to  look  forward  to  in  a  lifetime  truly,' 
he  said. 

Felix  felt  the  hopelessness  of  many  men's  lives  very  strongly 
at  that  moment.  He  was  just  going  to  speak,  to  make  some 
perhaps  floundering  attempt  at  honest  and  common-sense  con- 
solation, when  there  came  a  tap  at  the  door. 

'  Come  in  ! '  said  Felix,  startled  at  any  one's  wishing  to  speak 
to  him  so  late  at  night. 

The  door  opened  and  the  night  porter  appeared. 

'Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  sir,'  he  said,  'but  there's 
a  woman  downstairs  wishing  to  speak  to  you.' 

'A  woman  !' 

He  thought  of  Alice. 

'  Did  she  give  any  name?' 

'  Yes,  sir,  the  name  of  Mrs.  Blake.' 

'Mrs.  Blake?' 

For  a  moment  Felix  did  not  remember  that  he  knew  any 
one  of  that  name.  Then  suddenly  he  thought  of  Happy 
Hal,  and  his  thin,  piteous  little  wife.  It  must  be  she.  But 
what  could  she  want?  Why  did  she  come  to  see  him  at  mid- 
night? 

'  Ask  her  to  come  up,'  he  said  to  the  porter. 

'Yes,  sir.' 

'And  just  take  this  gentleman  down  with  you  in  the  lift.* 

He  shook  hands  warmly  with  Chalmers. 

*  Do  come  and  see  me  again,'  he  said. 

'Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Wilding.     I  will  truly.' 

The  porter  had  left  the  room.  Chalmers  was  already  near 
the  door. 

'And — I  say,  Chalmers,  the  truth  is  hard,  I  know,  and  bitter 
to  face,  but  don't  tliink  you  're  the  only  one  that 's  got  to  show 
courage.     There  's  something  very  bad  in  front  of  me  too.' 

'  I  'm  sorry,  Mr.  Wilding.' 

'And — well,  Chalmers,  I  fancy  that  everybody  who  shows 
courage  gives  courage  to  others.  Don't  you  think  so?  Let's 
both  try  to  have  pluck.' 

'I  will  try,  Mr.  Wilding.  Thank  you  kindly.  I'm  sure  I 
shall  never  forget ' 

He  stopped  speaking,  stood  for  a  moment,  then  threw  up  his 
head  with  the  old  leonine  air  and  strode  out  of  the  room. 

'Poor  chap  ! '  Felix  muttered. 

He  felt  sincerely  grateful  to  Chalmers,  for,  in  trying  to  help 


368  FELIX 

him,  he  had  certainly  helped  himself,  in  confronting  the  sorrow 
of  another  he  had  gained  in  power  to  confront  his  own. 

'  Mrs.  Blake,  sir,'  said  the  night  porter's  voice. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Happy  Hal's  wife  crept,  rather 
than  walked,  sideways  into  the  room,  with  her  head  drooped 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  carpet.  The  n'ght  porter  stared  after 
her  with  bluff  surprise,  went  out  and  shut  the  door. 

'  Mrs.  Blake,'  said  Felix.  *  I  'm  glad  to  see  you.  Do  please 
sit  down.     What  is  it?' 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  Mrs.  Blake  did  not  take  it. 
Perhaps  she  did  not  see  it.  She  looked  thinner,  more  meagre, 
more  plaintively  respectable  than  ever.  She  wore  a  small  black 
bonnet,  and  a  black  shawl  pinned  across  her  flat  chest.  Re- 
maining where  she  was,  close  to  the  shut  door,  she  dropped  a 
curtsey.  Her  hands  were  hidden  under  the  shawl,  but  by  a 
slight,  continuous  movement  of  it  Felix  knew  that  they  were 
trembling. 

'There's  nothing  wrong,  I  hope?'  he  said  quickly. 

A  thin  sound  came  from  the  little  woman.  It  was  almost 
like  the  whimper  of  a  small  dog. 

'  Come  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  tell  me  what  it  is,'  Felix 
said. 

He  put  his  hand  gently  on  Mrs.  Blake's  arm  and  led  her  to 
a  chair.  She  sat  down  modestly  on  the  edge,  swallowed,  and 
then  said  in  a  low,  formal  voice,  which  quivered  once  or  twice 
and  almost  broke  : 

'  I  'm  fair  ashamed,  sir,  to  come  and  disturb  a  gentleman  at 
this  time  of  night.' 

'  Nonsense.  I  'm  glad  to  see  you.  How  is  your  husband  ? 
All  right,  I  hope?' 

Mrs.  Blake  swallowed  again.  Felix  could  see  her  throat, 
which  seemed  to  him  almost  as  narrow  as  a  bird's  throat, 
working. 

'  Sir,  it 's — it 's  Hal  as  I  've  come  about,'  she  answered,  after 
a  moment. 

'He 'snot  ill?' 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Blake  broke  down  and  began  to  cry  softly. 
Even  her  grief  was  strangely  subdued  and  respectable.  Tears 
rolled  down  her  thin  cheeks  to  her  pointed  chin,  and  dropped 
off  on  to  the  black  shawl. 

'What  is  it?  Try  to  tell  me,  and  if  I  can  do  anything, 
I  will.' 

'It's  Hal,  sir,'  she  said  at  length,  gulping  down  her  sobs. 
'I'm  in  great  trouble  about  him.' 


FELIX  869 

*He  is  ill,  then?' 

'No,  sir,  but —but  it  all  come  about  just  as  ever — as  ever  I 
thought  it  would.  Why  did  we  go  from  Dover?  Why  did  we 
go  from  Dover  ?  ' 

The  tears  ran  down  again. 

'He's  got  into  difficulties?'  asked  Felix.  'But  I  thought 
he  was  doing  splendidly.  I  saw  his  name  on  the  bills  at  the 
Palace.  I  've  been  meaning  to  come  and  see  him,  but — well, 
I  've  had  so  many  things.' 

'  It  isn't  money,  sir.     No,  sir,  it 's — it 's  the  drink.' 

*  The  drink  ! '  exclaimed  Felix.  '  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
Hal's  been  drinking?' 

'Drinking  something  dreadful,  sir.  I  always  was  afraid  for 
him,  sir.  And  I  was  right.  It  come  on  gradual  like.  I  won't 
say  as  it  was  his  fault.  But  they  was  always  wanting  to  treat 
him,  one  and  another.  You  see,  sir,  his  being  a  famous  man, 
as  you  may  say ' 

'  I  know.' 

'Well,  they  pretty  nigh  made  him  drink  whether  he  was  that 
way  or  not.  And  the  end  of  it  was  he  got  a  taste  for  it,  and 
ever  since  it's  been  something  shocking.  I  've  had  to  send  the 
children  away,  back  to  my  mother  at  Dover,  for  I  couldn't  have 
them  there  to  see — to  see ' 

Her  voice  was  drowned  in  sobs. 

'And  we  always  so  respectable!'  she  murmured  through 
them.     '  Up  till  now.' 

Felix  felt  deeply  sorry  for  her,  but  his  chief  sensation  was 
one  of  sheer  amazement.  He  thought  of  Hal,  of  his  resolute, 
serene  face,  his  straightforward  eyes.  Mrs.  Blake's  assertion 
seemed  incredible.  Yet  it  must  be  true.  Her  grief  was  pain- 
fully genuine. 

'I'm  sorry,' he  said.  'Awfully  sorry.  I  never  could  have 
believed  that  your  husband  would  fall  into  that.' 

'  I  was  always  afraid,  sir,  always.' 

Just  then  Felix  remembered  how  he  had  mentally  laucihed  at 
Mrs.  Blake's  fears  and  at  his  mother's,  how  he  had  pitied  poor, 
timorous  women.     He  felt  his  cheeks  getting  hot. 

'But  now,'  he  said  quickly,  eager  to  get  away  from  his 
thought,  'has  anything  happened  to-night?' 

'Yes,  sir,  or  I  would  never  have  ventured  to ' 

'Look  here,  Mrs.  Blake,'  Felix  interrupted,  'your  husband 
was  my  first  friend  in  London.  If  I  can  do  anything  I  shall  be 
glad,  and  I  won't  have  you  apologise.     What's  the  matter?' 

'  Well,  sir,  lately  I  've  been  trying  to  keep  Hal  straight  by 

2  A 


370  FELIX 

going  to  the  hall  and  meeting  him  when  he  come  out.  It 
wasn't  at  all  what  I  've  been  accustomed  to,  sir,  standing  of  a 
night-time  out  in  the  street,  and  with  all  sorts  of  women.  Well, 
sir,  you  know  what  London  is  of  a  night,  a  fair  disgrace  !  But, 
however,  I  put  up  with  it  for  Hal.  Sometimes  he  'd  come  with 
me  and  sometimes  he  wouldn't,  but  I  was  always  there  ready  in 
hopes  of  him,  sir.  And  I  will  say  for  him  he  's  never  lifted  his 
hand  against  me,  not  when  he  knew  what  he  was  doing.' 

'  Mrs.  Blake  ! '  said  Felix. 

He  felt  inclined  to  put  his  arm  round  those  thin  shoulders 
protectively. 

*  No,  sir.  But  lately  he  's  nearly  always  refused  to  come  home 
after  his  turn,  and  left  me  there  in  the  street  while  he  's  gone 
off  with  some  of  his  new  pals,  sir.  Now  and  again  I  've  thought 
to  give  up  going  for  him,  but  then  I  thinks.  No,  he  's  naught 
but  me.  Sir,  I  mean  to  care  to  keep  him  decent  and  as  he 
was.'  She  choked,  drew  one  thin  hand,  wrinkled  by  the  soap 
and  water  of  the  washtub,  from  beneath  her  shawl,  passed  it 
across  her  eyes,  and  continued:  'So  I  sticks  to  it,  sir,  though 
night  after  night  I  've  had  to  come  home  alone.  This  evening 
I  went,  but  it  started  raining,  so  I  went  inside  the  house, 
thinking  to  sit  till  Hal's  turn  come,  and  then  go  round  to  the 
stage  door,  as  they  calls  it.     Well,  sir,  Hal  never  come  on.* 

'Why?' 

'  That 's  just  it,  sir.  I  went  round  to  ask,  and  they  told  me 
as  he  'd  come  to  the  theatre  drunk.  They  'd  tried  to  turn  him 
away,  but  he  wouldn't  go.  There  was  a  fight,  sir.  Hal  is  strong ' 
— a  momentary  flash  of  wifely  pride  illumined  her  misery — 
*  there  ain't  many  like  him  for  that.  He  set  about  one  of  the 
stage  hands,  and  the  end  of  it  was  the  police  was  called  in  and 
— oh,  sir,  they  've  locked  him  up.' 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Blake,  forgetful  in  her  shame  and  despair 
of  what  was  due  to  the  proprieties,  and  to  a  '  real  gentleman, 
gave  way  utterly.  Her  thin  features  were  contorted,  tears 
streamed  from  her  eyes,  and  she  wrung  her  small,  wrinkled 
hands. 

'  I  didn't — know — where  to  look  for  help — sir,'  she  sobbed, 
*so  I  come  to  you.  Oh,  sir,  can't  you  speak  up  for  Hal,  can't 
you,  sir?  Oh,  sir,  get  him  away  from  prison  and  make  him  go 
back  to  Dover,  sir.  Let  us  be  as  we  was,  sir,  do  let  us  be  as 
we  was.' 

Felix  bent  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  One  or  two  of 
her  tears  fell  upon  his  hand.     Was  that  a  baptism  ? 

'  Do — do  let  us  be  as  we  was,  sir,'  she  sobbed  once  more. 


FELIX  871 

And  Paul  Chalmers  had  just  carried  his  grief  into  the  night, 
a  grief  arising  from  that  very  necessity,  to  go  back  and  be  as 
he  was. 

'  How  strange  it  all  is  ! '  Felix  thought,  touching  the  moisture 
on  his  hand.  'What  does  it  mean?  And  why  has  it  all  come 
to  me  at  once?' 

He  contemplated  a  Trinity  of  Sorrows — Chalmers's,  Mrs. 
Blake's,  his  own. 

'  Do,  sir — do  let  us  be — be  as  we  was  ! ' 

She  pleaded  with  him  almost  as  some  despairing  women  plead 
with  God,  with  him — Felix,  who  had  been  so  deceived.  She 
relied  upon  him  who  could  surely  no  longer  dare  to  rely  upon 
himself.  He  sat  there,  and  heard  her  sobs  and  the  distant  roll 
of  London's  midnight  traffic. 

'Can  I  really  do  anything  for  anybody?'  he  thought. 

No  answer  came  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  to  confront 
the  void  in  which  the  world  was  spinning. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

MRS.  WILDING  wrote  often  to  Felix.  She  spoke  in  her 
letters  of  the  dawning  of  spring.  She  said  that  the 
dreariness  of  winter  was  passing.  She  did  not  beg  him  to  come 
home,  but  in  her  descriptions  of  the  growing  charms  of  the 
country  was  only  half  hidden  her  yearning  to  see  her  son.  If 
he  would  not  come  to  be  with  her,  perhaps  he  would  come  to 
see  the  earliest  flowers  beginning  to  peep  out  in  the  brown 
earth.  As  a  little  child  Felix  had  loved  the  spring.  The 
ferment  of  nature  had  been  reflected  in  his  youthful  heart  and 
brain.  Mrs.  Wilding  remembered  it.  She  remembered  indeed 
everything  connected  with  her  children.  And  now,  in  her 
letters,  she  alluded  to  the  old  times,  to  spring  expeditions  in 
search  of  the  first  violets,  the  first  periwinkles,  to  the  emulation 
between  Felix  and  Margot  as  to  who  would  find  the  first 
primrose  of  the  year,  to  their  joy  and  interest  in  the  young 
lambs. 

But  Felix  confronted  the  void.  Out  of  the  darkness  there 
came  to  him  cries  that  were  as  the  cries  of  helpless,  storm- 
driven  creatures  being  hurled  towards  terrible  abysses.  He 
seemed  to  see  pale,  frantic  hands  raised  in  wild  gestures  of 
appeal.  The  pity  of  the  world — he  really  meant  London  when 
he  said  to  himself  the  world — got  hold  of  him.  It  was  as  if  he 
sat  upon  some  dominating  height  and  contemplated  it,  as  if  no 
one  but  himself  had  ever  contemplated  it  before.  Face  to  face 
with  the  tragedy  of  Mrs.  Ismey,  the  tragedy  of  himself,  his 
mother's  letters  struck  him  as  decidedly  trivial.  All  this  talk 
about  the  prettiness  of  spring,  all  these  old,  childish  memories 
roused  little  interest,  little  emotion  in  the  serious  man  who  was 
waking  to  a  strange  knowledge  of  the  frivolous,  ignorant  boy 
that  he  had  been.  Of  course  his  mother  could  not  be  expected 
to  realise  that  the  perennial  changes  in  nature  were  matters  of 
small  moment  to  one  who  was  diving  deep  into  the  tragedies 
of  human  beings.  She  lived  apart  from  such  tragedies.  He 
thought  of  her  almost  as  some  elderly,  good  nun,  cloistere>i  in 
a  calm  retreat  where  nothing  of  danger,  of  evil  could  approach 

872 


FELIX  373 

to  disturb  the  profound  peace.  She  had  time  to  meditate,  time 
to  watch  a  snowdrop  come  up,  or  a  crocus  hft  its  yellow  head 
to  the  pale  sun,  time  to  tell  him  of  these  trivial  and  inevitable 
events  which  each  new  spring-time  saw.  But  he  had  work  to 
do  in  the  world.  He  felt  as  if  all  London  were  calling  on  him 
for  help,  clamouring  to  him  for  assistance,  and  he  wrote  short 
answers  to  his  mother's  letters,  and  gave  no  hint  of  running 
down  to  see  for  himself  the  garden  beauties  she  described.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he  must  not  leave  his  post  even  for  a 
moment.  From  that  hour  of  night  when  he  followed  Alice  into 
the  dark  corridor  of  the  hotel  at  Eldon  Sands,  his  soul  was 
concentrated  on  one  thing,  the  rescue  of  Mrs.  Ismey  from  the 
vice  which  governed  her. 

He  found  time  to  speak  the  truth  to  Paul  Chalmers.  He 
went  with  weeping  Mrs.  Blake  to  bail  out  her  husband.  He 
exerted  himself  to  persuade  Hal  to  give  up  the  career  which, 
though  it  brought  riches  to  him,  was  bringing  also  destruction 
upon  him.  But,  whatever  he  did  that  wag  not  connected  with 
Mrs.  Ismey  and  with  her  vice,  he  did  with  a  sort  of  dogged 
resolution,  but  without  real,  live  energy.  Gradually,  while  he 
contemplated  the  dark  void,  the  vague  crowds  of  helpless, 
storm-driven  creatures  grew  pale  as  ghosts  and  vanished.  He 
saw  only  one.     Could  he  rescue  her? 

But  first  he  had  to  rescue  something  else. 

Among  the  horrors  of  that  night  of  knowledge  one  stood  out 
more  vital  than  all  the  others.  When  Alice  told  him  about 
Chicho,  Felix  went  to  the  window.  If  he  had  not  been  able  to 
get  air  at  that  moment  he  knew  that  he  must  have  been  ill. 
Even  the  crumbling  of  his  beliefs,  the  realisation  of  the 
persistent  and  invariable  deception  which  had  been  given  to 
him  where  he  came  for  truth,  even  the  cruel  blow  upon  his 
heart,  could  not  turn  his  mind  from  the  animal  which  was 
helplessly  involved  in  this  evil,  deliberately  forced  to  become 
what  others  at  least  chose  to  become,  exercising  their  free 
will.  That  night  when  he  leaned  out,  and  met  the  wind,  and 
saw  the  stars,  he  knew  that  he  had  to  take  Chicho  away  from 
Lady  Caroline. 

Felix  loved  animals.  There  were  a  few  things  which  his 
imagination  boggled  at,  things  which  he  knew  happened  in  the 
world,  but  which  utterly  puzzled  him,  because  he  was  totally 
unable  to  conceive  of  the  nature  capable  of  bringing  them 
about.  One  of  these  things  was  cruelty  to  a  dog.  When  he 
read  or  heard  about  murders,  even  of  a  very  foul  kind,  he  felt 
that,  however  vaguely,  he  could  in  some  degree  imagine  why 


374  FELIX 

they  had  been  committed.  One  human  being  can  wrong 
another.  Jealousies  can  arise  between  one  human  being  and 
another  for  worldly  reasons,  for  reasons  of  passion.  The 
murderer  he  could  conceive  of,  the  vitriol-thrower  even,  the 
thief,  the  cheat,  the  deseiter,  the  betrayer.  But  he  could  not 
conceive  of  the  nature  that  can  take  pleasure  in  torturing  a 
dog.  And  he  always  knew  that,  were  he  an  autocrat,  he 
would  have  the  man  who  persecuted  an  animal  strung  up  to  the 
nearest  tree. 

So  he  knew  that  he  had  to  take  Chicho  out  of  the  power  of 
Lady  Caroline.  He  considered  h  )w  he  could  do  this.  At  first 
he  thought  of  going  to  Great  Cumberland  Place,  asking  for  Lady 
Caroline,  telling  her  why  he  had  come,  and  demanding  the  little 
dog.  There  would  be  a  boldness  in  that,  an  audacity  which 
might  appeal  to  her.  She  was  bold,  audacious.  But  then,  he 
thought,  if  she  refused  to  part  from  Chicho?  What  could  he 
do?  And  of  course  she  would  refuse.  She  would,  perhaps, 
have  him  turned  out  of  the  house.  Or  she  would  merely  laugh 
at  him  as  a  silly  boy  who  was  vapouring  wildly  in  an  effort  to 
play  Don  Quixote.  Would  it  be  better  to  try  to  make  her  see 
the  loathsomeness  of  what  she  was  doing,  the  utter  cowardice 
of  it,  the — yes,  the  pitiful  dishonourableness  of  it  ?  For  a  humin 
being  can  be  dishonourable  to  an  animal.  He  might  plead  with 
her.  But  if  she  were  capable  of  doing  what  she  had  done  she 
must  surely  be  incapable  of  understanding  the  horror  of  it. 
The  morally  blind  cannot  be  made  to  see  in  a  moment  by  a 
miracle.  And  Felix  contemplated  Lady  Caroline  in  thought 
with  immeasurable  wonder.  Her  conduct  to  Chicho  seemed 
to  him  inexplicable,  opposed  to  her  nature  as  he  had  read  it. 
She  was  tyrannical,  no  doubt,  careless  of  the  world's  opinion, 
selfish  perhaps,  vicious  certainly.  Her  creed  was  'each  for  him- 
self.' She  was  disposed  to  let  the  weak  go  to  the  wall.  She 
was  even  wicked,  he  supposed.  For  had  she  not  led  Mrs. 
Ismey  into  ruin  while  pretending  to  be  her  friend?  Yet  she 
had  fineness  in  her,  a  true  sense  of  honour.  He  could  not  doubt 
it  after  her  silence  under  his  attack  upon  her  on  behalf  of  Mrs. 
Ismey  ;  her  resolute  preservation  of  the  secret  of  her  friend. 
How  could  such  a  woman,  with  all  her  evil  faults,  descend  to 
such  a  depth?     He  did  not  know. 

A  doctor  could  have  told  him,  any  doctor  who  had  studied 
the  ravages  of  morphia  in  the  modern  world. 

Felix  was  obliged  to  endure  his  ignorance  and  to  wonder. 
That  fact  did  not  turn  him  from  his  purpose.  He  was  going 
to  rescue  Chicho.     And,  at  last,  as  it  seemed  to   him   likely, 


FELIX  S75 

almost  certain,  that  any  open,  honest  attempt  to  do  that  must 
be  frustrated  by  Lady  Caroline's  indignant  or  laughing  refusal 
to  give  up  her  victim,  he  resolved  to  ster.l  the  little  dog.  He 
knew  this  would  be  difficult,  but  he  intended  to  do  it,  and, 
therefore,  did  not  choose  to  allow  to  himself  that  it  might  be 
impossible.  It  was  simply  a  thing  that  had  to  be  done,  there- 
fore a  thing  that  could  be  done.     But  how? 

He  had  not  seen  Lady  Caroline  since  the  day  when  he  lunched 
with  her.  Once  he  had  been  to  Great  Cumberland  Place  to 
leave  his  card.  He  resolved  to  go  again.  He  did  not  know 
what  he  was  going  to  do,  how  he  meant  to  get  hold  of  Chicho. 
But  he  wanted  to  be  inside  that  house.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
some  opportunity  might  arise  to  carry  out  his  purpose.  He 
would  learn,  perhaps,  when  Chicho  was  let  out  for  a  run.  The 
butler  might  tell  him.  Lady  Caroline  might  drop  a  chance 
word.  At  any  rate  he  would  go.  He  resolved  to  be  very  much 
on  his  guard  if  Lady  Caroline  were  at  home.  He  would  not 
allow  her  to  suspect  his  discovery  at  Eldon  Sands.  If  he  did 
she  might — he  almost  guiltily  told  himself  this — suspect  that  he 
had  some  enmity  against  her,  some  secret  purpose  in  coming  to 
see  her.  So,  full  of  cautious  resolution,  and  beset  by  a  strange 
feeling  that  he  was  something  between  a  fine  fellow  .ind  a 
criminal,  he  set  out  for  Lady  Caroline's  house  on  the  Wednesday 
after  his  return  to  town.  He  had  nc^t  seen  Mrs.  Ismey  since  he 
returned,  although  she  had  followed  him  with  Alice  on  Monday 
evening.  But  he  had  seen  Alice  once  at  his  flat.  Alice  was  in 
his  pay  now,  and  sworn  to  carry  out  his  orders  when  possible, 
and  to  tell  him  if  it  were  not  possible  to  carry  ihem  out. 

As  he  drew  near  to  Lady  Caroline's  door  he  found  himself 
walking  furtively,  with  the  step  of  a  thief,  he  thought.  And  now 
that  he  was  so  close  to  the  house  which  he  intended  to  rob  he 
be.uan  to  realise  more  fully  than  before  how  extraordinary,  how 
outrageous  even,  his  intention  was.  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
follow  up  his  first  idea,  to  tell  Lady  Caroline  the  whole  truth,  to 
trust  to  audacity  and  his  own  hot  sincerity  of  feeling  in  this 
matter?  Boldness,  when  complete,  often  means  complete 
success.  He  knew  this.  But  then  he  thought  of  Lady  Caroline. 
She  was  nut  like  other  people.  He  could  not  imagine  dominat- 
ing her  audacity  with  his.  When  he  reached  thu  house  he  was 
in  a  state  of  indecision,  and  he  resolved  to  wait  before  deciding 
what  to  do.  If  she  was  at  home  he  would  make  up  his  mii  d 
what  course  to  take  when  he  saw  her.  He  rang  the  bell.  The 
servant  came.  Her  ladyship  was  at  home.  Felix  scarcely  knew 
whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry.     He  felt  very  uneasy,  and  his 


376  FELIX 

nerves  were  quivering  with  excitement  as  he  followed  the  man 
into  the  boudoir  on  the  ground  floor. 

'I  will  tell  her  ladyship  you  are  here,  sir,'  said  the  man,  going 
out  and  leaving  him  alone  in  the  room. 

He  looked  round.  Now  that  he  knew  the  truth  of  Lady 
Caroline  and  Mrs.  Ismey,  the  room,  which  had  always  seemed  to 
him  strange,  seemed  to  him  horrible.  The  darkness  of  it — as 
before  only  one  lamp  with  a  red  shade  was  burning,  and  the  red 
curtains  were  already  drawn — was  evil,  the  aspect  of  disorder 
suggested  to  him  the  movements  of  delirium.  He  glanced  at 
the  great  sofa  near  the  fire,  and  imagined  women  lying  upon  it 
steeped  in  the  false  dreams,  the  brief  and  fading  ecstasies  of 
morphia.  A  low,  dull  sound  made  him  start  violently.  He  did 
not  know  what  it  was,  and  looked  round  quickly.  The  noise 
was  repeated,  and  this  time,  being  on  the  alert,  he  recognised  it 
as  the  growl  of  a  dog.  It  must  be  Chicho.  In  the  flickering 
obscurity  he  did  not  see  the  little  creature.  He  snapped  his 
fingers  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  '  Chicho  !  Chicho  ! '  He  heard 
the  growl  again.  It  was  louder  now,  and  he  was  able  to  locate 
it.  He  went  softly  over  to  the  corner  of  the  room  behind  the 
big  sofa  and  found  Chicho  lying  there  in  his  basket,  v/hich  was 
half  covered  in  with  cane,  and  was  lined  with  red  flannel.  His 
small  body,  thatched  with  thick,  bristling,  jet-black  hair,  looked 
almost  like  a  dark  shadow  in  the  gloom.  His  chin  was  resting 
on  the  basket  edge,  and  his  glassy  black  eyes  stared  at  Felix 
with  a  sort  of  dull  surliness,  while  he  growled  again.  Felix 
stood  looking  at  him.  He  seemed  weary  and  spiteful,  scarcely 
wide  awake,  but  just  suiificiently  conscious  to  be  stirred  by 
enmity.  Felix  bent  down  with  the  intention  of  touching  him, 
stroking  him,  but  Chicho  drew  back  his  lips,  showing  two  rows 
of  small  teeth.     And  just  then  the  man-servant  returned. 

'  I  'm  sorry,  sir,'  he  said.  '  But  I  made  a  mistake.  Her  lady- 
ship has  gone  out.' 

'  Oh,'  said  Felix. 

He  hesitated,  looking  at  the  man.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
the  opportunity  to  do  what  he  intended  to  do  had  presented 
itself  unexpectedly  soon.     He  must  grasp  it. 

'  Perhaps  I  can  write  a  note  and  leave  it  for  Lady  Caroline  ?' 
he  said, 

'Certainly,  sir.     You'll  find  writing  materials  here,  sir.' 

He  showed  a  table  near  Chicho's  basket. 

'Thanks.  Don't  trouble  to  wait  in  the  hall.  I'll  leave  the 
note  here  and  let  myself  out.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir.' 


FELIX  S77 

The  man,  who  had  waited  on  Felix  when  he  dined  and  lunched 
with  Lady  Caroline,  went  softly  out  and  closed  the  door,  leaving 
Felix  sitting  at  the  writing-table.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone  Felix 
wrote  the  following  note  ; 

'  Dear  Lady  Caroline, — I  called  to  see  you  this  afternoon, 
but  have  missed  you.  If  you  had  been  at  home  I  might  have 
asked  you  something.  I  don't  know.  As  you  are  out  I  am 
venturing  to  follow  my  instinct.  That  tells  me  to  become  a 
thief  and  to  steal  Chicho.  Do  not  look  for  him.  You  will  not  find 
him.  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I  don't  think  there  is 
much  to  forgive,  really.  You  will  understand  why  I  have  done 
this.  But  please  believe  that  when  I  accepted  your  kind 
hospitality  I  did  not  know.  Felix  Wilding.' 

He  was  going  to  be  a  thief,  but,  at  least,  he  would  tell  her  that 
he  was  one.  Some  boldness  in  him  went  out  to  encounter  hers. 
He  put  the  note  into  an  envelope,  addressed  it,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  then  went  to  the  door,  opened  it  slightly,  looked  out  and 
listened.  There  was  no  sound.  He  could  not  see  the  whole  of 
the  hall,  but  apparently  the  servant  had  gone  away.  If  not  he 
must  be  waiting  by  the  front  door.  That  was  possible.  Felix 
resolved  to  make  sure  and  went  out  softly.  The  man  was  not 
there.  Felix  returned  quickly  to  the  room  and  approached 
Chicho's  basket.  When  he  had  first  seen  Chicho  he  remembered 
feeling  that  to  touch  the  little  dog  would  be  horrible  to  him. 
Then  he  did  not  know  the  truth.  Now  that  he  did  know  it  the 
sensation  of  horror  was  still  very  strong  upon  him,  but  with  it 
was  blended  a  sensation  of  pity  which  was  stronger  still. 

'Chicho! 'he  said.     'Chicho!' 

Chicho  growled  feebly,  sulkily.  Felix  touched  him.  The 
black  hair  along  the  middle  of  his  back  bristled  up,  and  he 
showed  all  his  teeth  as  if  he  were  going  to  bite. 

'Chicho!     Chicho!' 

Felix  put  his  left  arm  round  the  little  dog  and  lifted  him  out 
of  the  basket  swiftly.  Chicho  growled  more  fiercely,  struggled, 
but  lethargically  as  if  his  limbs  were  inert  and  refused  to  obey 
fully  the  angry  temper  that  smouldered  within  him.  He  turned  his 
head  from  side  to  side,  and  tried  to  set  his  teeth  in  Felix's  hand. 
His  writhing  body  made  Felix  almost  sick  as  he  felt  it  against 
his  arm  and  side.  He  longed  to  drop  Chicho,  to  get  away  from 
him  and  never  to  see  him  again.  The  dog  was  disgustingly  un- 
natural. But  he  conquered  his  rejiulsion,  hurried  through  the 
hall  to  the  door,  opened  it  with  some  difficulty  and  stepped  into 


378  FELIX 

the  street.     Just  as  he  did  so  he  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  his  hand. 
Chicho  had  his  set  teeth  in  it.     A  little  blood  trickled  down. 

'  Poor  Chicho  !     Poor  Chicho  ! '  Felix  whispered. 

It  was  strange  and  spiteful  to  wound  your  rescuer  !     But  how 
common  are  such  wounds,  how  often  given  ! 

Felix  he'd  Chicho  fast  and  hurried  on.     And  as  he  went  he 
kept  on  feehng  the  trickle,  trickle  of  the  blood. 

When  he  reached  home  he  sent  for  a  doctor  and  had  the 
wound  in  his  hand  cauterised.  Then  he  sliut  himself  up  with 
Chicho.  The  disgust  which  he  had  formerly  felt  for  the  little 
dog  began  to  vanish  now  that  Chicho  was  at  his  mercy.  An 
intense  pity  took  its  place,  mingled  with  an  intense  interest.  In 
watching  Chicho's  misery  he  thought  he  realised  what  Mrs. 
Ismey's  must  be.  In  curing  Chicho  he  felt  that  he  would  give 
strength  to  his  hope  of  curing  Mrs.  Ismey.  Her  treachery  to 
her  friend,  her  blackening  of  her  husband's  reputation,  her  end- 
less lies  to  him,  the  hideous  condition  of  body  and  mind  into 
which  she  had  fallen,  the  dirt,  the  destruction,  the  degradation, 
all  these  Felix  found  himself  able  to  forgive  more  completely 
now  that  he  possessed  Chicho,  and  was  setting  out  to  give  him 
what  had  been  taken  from  him — health,  naturalness.  For  in 
contemplating  the  faint  craziness,  the  physical  and  mental 
wretchedness  of  the  dog,  he  began  to  understand  in  what  a  grip 
the  woman  must  be  held.  Something  of  that  which  Alice  had 
told  him,  something  of  that  which  he  had  vividly  imagined  when 
he  heard,  above  the  roar  of  wind  and  sea,  Mrs.  Ismey's  cries  in 
the  night,  after  she  had  been  forcibly  removed  from  the  door  of 
the  hotel  and  made  to  re-enter  her  room  without  the  poison  she 
was  seeking,  he  now  saw  for  himself.  He  was  shut  up  with  a 
victim. 

He  put  the  little  dog  on  the  divan  and  covered  him  with  a 
rug.  Chicho  refused  all  food,  would  not  touch  water,  and  still 
manifested  a  feeble  vindictiveness  to  his  rescuer,  a  vindictive- 
ness  which  his  half-dreamy  fatigue  prevented  from  becoming 
savage.  He  seemed  very  tired,  and  lay  growling  faintly,  and 
staring  with  sickly  malignity  at  Felix.  Presently  he  closed  his 
beadlike  eyes  and  seemed  to  fall  asleep.  He  remained  motion- 
less on  the  divan,  and  Felix  heard  the  sound  of  heavy  and 
regular  breathing. 

He  took  up  a  book  and  tried  to  read,  but  his  mind  was  pre- 
occupied. He  laid  it  down  again  and  sat  staring  at  the  little 
black  body  on  the  divan.  The  wonder  of  life  was  enclosed  in 
that,  as  it  was  enclosed  in  him,  in  Mrs.  Ismey ;  the  mystery,  the 
energy,  the  power  to  love  and  hate,  something  of  God,  some- 


FELIX  379 

thing  of  Devil ;  something  so  inclusive  that  in  watching  it,  in 
ministering  to  it,  he  felt  as  if  he  drew  nearer  to  the  woman  he 
condemned,  pitied,  loved,  almost  as  if  he  kept  vigil  by  her  sleep. 
Are  all  lives  cradled  in  each  life?  Are  we  all,  we  and  those 
whom  we  often  call  the  lower  animals,  more  nearly  akin  to  each 
other  than  we  know  ?  He  wondered,  and  was  almost  surprised 
to  find  that  the  mere  fact  of  life  existing  in  anything  placed  that 
thing,  in  his  thought,  beside  the  woman  he  meant  to  strive  for. 
She  had  wronged  him,  Chicho  had  wounded  him.  What  did  it 
matter?  He  looked  at  his  hand,  he  looked  into  his  heart. 
What  did  it  matter?  There  is  something  within  us  that  takes 
no  account  of  the  gall  and  the  wormwood ;  something  which, 
in  the  liigh  moments  of  life,  finds  that  the  small  becomes  the 
blessedly  invisible. 

Presently  Chicho  stirred  uneasily  and  woke.  His  waking  was 
horrible,  as  is  the  waking  of  a  human  being  diseased  by  morpliia. 
As  he  returned  to  consciousness  he  was  evidently  gripped  by 
fear,  by  an  intense  nervous  inquietude,  by  a  frantic  desire  for 
shelter  and  for  obscurity.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  glared  first  this 
way  and  then  that,  turning  his  head  rapidly  from  side  to  side  as 
if  keenly  aware  of  some  threatening  danger,  and  undecided 
whether  there  was  still  time  to  escape  from  it,  or  whether  he 
must  prepare  to  attack  it.  He  growled,  then  whimpered  pite- 
ously,  moved  on  the  divan,  and  began  to  endeavour  to  get  off  it 
on  to  the  floor.  He  raised  himself  upon  his  fore-paws,  but  his 
hind-quarters  seemed  to  be  partially  paralysed.  They  collapsed 
under  him,  and  he  could  only  draw  them  very  slowly  along  the 
cushions  as  he  wriggled  forward.  His  appearance,  as  he  did 
this,  was  abominable.  The  semblance  of  a  dog  seemed  to  drop 
from  him.  With  his  staring  eyes,  his  grinning  jaws,  his  un- 
natural gait,  his  cowed  and  yet  malicious  expression,  he  looked 
like  a  hyaena,  at  once  savage  and  fearful.  Felix  was  seized  with 
sickening  disgust  for  a  moment,  but  he  overcame  it,  got  up 
quickly  and  tried  to  soothe  the  little  dog.  His  effort  was  use- 
less. Chicho  did  not  seem  to  hear  his  voice  or  to  recognise 
that  he  was  there.  Still  shrinking,  quivering,  turning  his  head 
from  side  to  side,  the  animal  gained  the  edge  of  the  divan,  fell, 
rather  than  jumped,  from  it  on  to  the  floor,  crawled  to  an  arm- 
chair, disappeared  beneath  it,  and  lay  there  shuddering  and 
faintly  barking.  It  was  evident  that,  waking  suddenly,  he  hated 
and  feared  the  light. 

She,  too,  hated  and  feared  the  light.  Felix  remembered 
drawing  the  curtain  at  Eldon  Sands,  remembered  how  often  he 
had  found  her  stretched  upon  the  sofa  in  the  perfumed  obscurity 


380  FELIX 

of  the  drawing-room  in  Green  Street.  Would  he  ever  be  able 
to  take  her  out  with  him  into  the  air  and  the  sun?  Would  she 
ever  face  the  wind  and  the  light  of  the  open  heavens  fearlessly 
again  ? 

He  tried  to  coax  Chicho  out,  but  failed  in  the  attempt.  And 
a  sort  of  heavy,  leaden  fear  entered  into  his  heart. 

But  in  the  morning  he  felt  happier.  The  little  dog  looked, 
he  thought,  more  natural,  less  malignant,  less  cowardly.  Seeing 
him  now  in  the  daylight  Felix  noticed  that  he  was  horribly  thin, 
and  tried  eagerly  to  make  him  eat.  But  he  still  refused  food, 
though  he  feebly  lapped  a  little  water  out  of  a  saucer  set  down 
on  the  floor.  Having  done  this  he  dragged  himself  again  to  the 
armchair,  and  concealed  himself  in  the  darkness  beneath  it. 
Only  when  he  was  in  darkness  did  he  seem  to  be  at  ease. 

She  was  like  that  too.  Felix  began  to  realise  the  fact  that 
morphia  creates  monsters,  morphia-people  to  whom  all  that  the 
healthy  and  the  normal  think  of  as  natural  is  intolerable, 
morphia-people  who  flee  the  light  like  criminals,  who  flee  the 
truth  as  if  it  were  a  consuming  fire. 

'  Poor  Chicho  !  Poor  Chicho ! '  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  little 
dog  cowering  in  the  obscurity. 

But  he  was  thinking  of  her. 

That  morning  at  breakfast  he  had  two  letters,  one  from  his 
mother  and  one  from  Lady  Caroline.  He  opened  the  latter 
eagerly.     It  was  very  short : 

'Dear  Mr.  Wilding, — Come  to  see  me.  Come  either  to- 
morrow morning  at  twelve,  or  to-morrow  afternoon  at  four. 

'  Caroline  Hurst.' 

What  did  she  think  of  him?  What  did  she  intend  to  do? 
How  would  they  meet?  An  intense  excitement  seized  him,  a 
desire  to  fight.  He  longed  for  action.  In  idleness  he  was 
haunted  by  the  tragedy  of  his  disillusion,  by  the  spectres  of  the 
lies  he  had  clung  to,  taking  them  for  truths.  Hope  goes  hand 
in  hand  with  action.  He  resolved  to  be  with  Lady  Caroline  at 
twelve.  Then  he  opened  his  mother's  letter  and  read  it  slowly. 
When  he  had  finished  it  he  laid  it  down  on  the  breakfast-table 
and  sat  for  a  long  time.  He  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  feeling ; 
surprise,  a  sort  of  wonder  which  he  knew  to  be  ridiculous?  His 
mother  told  him  that  Margot  was  shortly  going  to  have  a  child. 
Margot  was  going  to  be  a  mother.  Margot !  Now  he  knew 
why  he  had  been  dimly  conscious  of  a  change  in  her.  He 
understood  the  meaning  of  the  expression  which  had  come  into 
Stephen's  face,  the  very  human  expression.     Margot — a  mother ! 


FELIX  881 

He  had  been  very  close  to  her.  Now,  surely,  he  was  very  far 
away.  She  was  walking  along  mysterious  confines.  He,  too, 
was  near  to  mystery,  the  mystery  of  his  love,  and  pity,  and  for- 
giveness. His  mother  spoke  of  her  anxiety.  He  was  very 
conscious  of  that  anxiety  in  reading  the  letter.  Margot  had 
never  been  particularly  strong. 

Suddenly  Felix  lost  that  sense  of  being  very  far  away  from 
his  sister.  He  thought  of  her  illness,  her  pain,  almost  as  if 
they  were  going  to  be  his  own.  He  remembered  that  moment 
upon  the  landing  before  the  marriage  dinner;  the  anxious, 
tender  look  in  his  sister's  intelligent,  sensitive  brown  eyes.  How 
grateful  she  had  been  to  him.  And  why?  Simply  because  he 
showed  for  a  moment  that  she  had  meant  something  in  his  life ; 
that  her  going  left  an  empty  space.  Since  her  marriage,  in  his 
mind  and  heart  he  had  almost  ignored  her.  Now  he  was 
suddenly  conscious  that  she  was  his  sister,  and  that  he  had  a 
feeling  for  her  which  he  could  never  have  for  any  other  human 
being.  When  he  thought  of  her  suffering,  perhaps  dying,  it  was 
as  if  his  flesh  were  thinking  as  well  as  his  spirit. 

They  two  had  come  from  the  same  place,  and  they  two  alone 
of  all  the  world. 

Chicho  whimpered  in  his  hiding-place,  and  Felix  remembered 
Mrs.  Ismey.  Was  life  opening  out  before  him,  or  was  death 
closing  in  about  him?  He  did  not  know,  but  he  seemed  to  be 
in  steady  movement  towards  a  crisis.  His  mother's  letter,  the 
knowledge  and  the  emotion  it  brought,  accelerated  the  move- 
ment. She  spoke  in  it  of  death,  gently,  sincerely,  as  if  she  had 
been  thinking  about  it  a  great  deal. 

Felix  threw  the  letter  down  on  his  writing-table  almost 
impatiently.  T  'sh  !  Children  were  born  into  the  world  every 
day  by  thousands  and  the  mothers  lived.  Of  course  Margot 
would  live. 

He  did  not  mean  to  go  to  Sam's  that  day.  He  had  Chicho 
to  tend  and  Lady  Caroline  to  see.  His  hand  throbbed  rather 
painfully.  As  the  morning  wore  on  Chicho  showed  great  un- 
easiness and  distress.  He  crept  out  from  the  darkness  under 
the  chair,  and  crawled  about  the  room  from  corner  to  corner  as 
if  seeking  blindly  for  something.  His  breathing  was  short  and 
convulsive.  There  was  a  look  of  agony  in  his  glassy  eyes.  At 
first  he  avoided  Felix,  but  presently  he  came  to  him,  .s(|uattcd 
sideways  on  the  floor  near  him,  and  stared  up  at  him  fixedly  as 
if  claiming  something  from  him.  He  whined  pitcously  and 
began  to  scratch  the  car[)ct  with  his  fore-paws.  His  hind- 
quarters still  seemed  to  be  partially  paralysed. 


382  FELIX 

Felix  was  filled  with  a  sickening  knowledge  of  what  he  was 
seeking. 

Chicho  sat  there  staring  up  and  scratching  on  the  carpet,  as 
if  he  thought  the  poison  he  was  dumbly  asking  for  lay  concealed 
in  some  hole  beneath  him.  His  tongue  lolled  out.  He  looked 
no  longer  vicious,  but  piteous,  distracted.  Felix  felt  his  heart 
harden  against  Lady  Caroline. 

When  he  reached  her  house  at  twelve,  having  left  Chicho 
locked  up  in  his  sitting-room  with  a  plate  of  food  and  a  pan  of 
water,  he  entered  it  with  no  feeling  of  fear,  no  sense  even  of 
uneasiness.  She  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  boudoir.  The 
man-servant,  who  stared  at  Felix  with  an  expression  of  eager 
curiosity,  went  out,  it  seemed  almost  reluctantly,  and  left  them 
together.  Lady  Caroline  did  not  shake  hands.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  big  couch  by  the  fire.     When  the  door  shut  she  said  : 

'Sit  down.' 

Felix  took  a  chair.  He  had  brought  in  his  hat,  and  set  it 
down  on  the  floor  beside  him. 

'  You  know  I  can  have  you  up  ? '  Lady  Caroline  said. 

*  For  theft.     Yes,  I  know.' 
'Where  is  he?  ' 

•  Chicho  ?     In  my  rooms.' 
*Is  he  suffering?' 

'I'm  afraid  so.' 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said : 

♦You  know  all  about  Valeria? ' 

'Yes.' 

'Who  told  you?' 

'We  were  staying  at  Eldon  Sands.  She  lost  the  cigarette-case 
you  gave  her.    Then  I  made  Alice  tell  me.' 

'  I  see.     That  was  how  it  was.     I  knew  it  must  happen  in  the 

end.     And  of  course  Alice  told  you  everything.     Poor '  her 

voice  was  becoming  compassionate.  She  suddenly  checked 
herself. 

'  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  me?'  she  asked  calmly. 

She  stared  at  him  with  her  long,  light  eyes.  She  did  not 
look  curious.  There  was  very  little  expression  in  her  puffy, 
almost  livid,  and  yet  powerful  face. 

'Why  did  you  do  it?'  he  said.  'Why  did  you?  It  was 
cowardly.' 

She  leaned  back  till  she  was  able  to  rest  against  the  raised 
end  of  the  couch. 

'  It  was  cowardly,'  he  repeated.  '  And  you  weren't  meant  to 
be  a  coward.' 


FELIX  S83 

*  I  don't  believe  I  was,'  she  said. 

She  was  silent  again,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  deeply. 
Presently  she  said : 

'  Look  here !  I  'm  the  last  woman  to  make  excuses  for  my 
acts,  but  you  don't  know  what  morphia  means  to  some  of  us, 
many  of  us,  modern  women  without  professions,  without  beliefs. 
Morphia  makes  life  possible.' 

'Hideous !'  he  said. 

'  Possible.  It  adds  to  truth  a  dream.  What  more  does 
religion  do  ?' 

'  Oh  ! '  he  exclaimed. 

'  I  shock  you.  What  I  mean  is  that  truth  alone  is  both  not 
enough  and  far  too  much  for  us.' 

'It's  the  only  thing,' he  said  vehemently.     'The  only  thing!' 

*  Each  of  us  must  add  to  it  his  or  her  dream,  believe  me. 
You  will  add  yours.  I  have  added  mine.  I  make  my  life 
possible  by  taking  morphia.  I  don't  disfigure  my  life  by 
taking  it.' 

'You  have  disfigured  hers.' 

'Yes,  because  she  has  no  strength.' 

He  thought  of  the  canon  played  on  the  two  pianos. 

'She  has  let  it  dominate  her  and  carry  her  away,  as  nearly 
every  one  does  who  takes  to  it,'  continued  Lady  Caroline. 

'You  knew  that  and  yet  you  made  her  take  the  first  step.' 

'Yes.  In  those  days  I  didn't  care.  I  had  a  strong  will,  and 
the  strong  will  is  rather  ruthless  generally.  I  had  found  a 
pleasure.  I  passed  it  on.  I  couldn't  help  passing  it  on.  Oh, 
I'm  really  morphia  mad,  I  suppose,  although  I  never  exceed 
my  daily  allowance.' 

She  laughed,  without  mirth,  ...  laid  her  hand  on  a  book 
which  was  lying  on  a  table  near  her. 

'This  book  is  written  by  a  French  doctor,'  she  said,  'on 
morphia  in  modern  life  and  its  "victims."  I'm  in  this  hook. 
I  began  to  read  it  last  night,  and  found  myself  described  in  it, 
though  the  man's  never  seen  or  heard  of  me.  I  'm  a  morphia- 
type.  Pleasant,  isn't  it  ?  There  are  two  kinds  of  morphia 
maniacs — the  mysterious,  and  those  who  are  apostles.  The 
former  lie  about  their  habit  and  conceal  it.  The  latter  boast 
about  it,  and  are  persecuted  by  an  incessant,  restless  desire  to 
spread  it,  to  innoculate  others  with  it.  Valeria's  in  this  book, 
and  so  am  I.  Valeria  has  always  been  imitntive.  When  I 
added  my  dream  to  the  truth  I  wanted  her  to  do  the  same.  I 
didn't  realise  how  far  she  would  go.' 

'  And  you  didn't  care  1 ' 


384  FELIX 

'  Not  then.     It  wasn't  in  me  to  care  then.' 

'Then!'  he  said.  'Why  do  you  say  "then"?  It  isn't  in 
you  to  care  now.' 

'  I  don't  know  that,'  she  said.  'You  remember  the  day  you 
lunched  with  me?' 

'Yes.' 

'  That  day  I  wished  I  had  let  Valeria  alone.  I  wished  it 
badly.' 

'But  why  that  day?' 

'  Well,  when  you  said  "  she  trusts  me,"  and  I  knew  how 
much,  I  thought  to  myself  that  but  for  me  she  might  never 
have  told  you  all  those  lies.  And  all  those  lies  seemed  a  pity, 
told  to  you.' 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  bluff,  abrupt  way.  There  was 
nothing  tender  in  her  voice,  but  she  did  not  look  at  Felix. 

'You're  rather  a  good  chap,'  she  added,  after  a  slight  pause. 
♦You  can  keep  Chicho.' 

'  Lady  Caroline,'  he  said,  'why  aren't  you  a  splendid  woman?' 

'  Because  I  have  no  beUef  in  to-morrow,'  she  said. 

They  were  both  silent.  Felix  felt  clearly  now  what  he  had 
felt  dimly  before,  that  Lady  Caroline  would  certainly  have  been 
a  fine  fellow — yes,  just  that — if  she  had  not  been  such  a  rascal. 
The  slang  of  his  earnest,  boyish  thought  suited  her. 

But  Chicho  ? 

♦  How  could  you  do  it  to  a  dog?'  he  asked. 

♦  I  know.  How  could  I  ?  This  book  has  told  me.  This 
doctor  knows.  I  have  my  nature  and  my  morphia-nature. 
My  morphia-nature  makes  me  pass  on  my — well,  my  addition 
to  truth.     I  have  to.     The  desire  is  irresistible.' 

Her  face  changed.  Felix  thought  it  gleamed,  as  a  red  coal 
gleams  when  you  fan  it. 

'  But  that  is  madness  ! '  he  exclaimed. 

'Is  it?  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is.  There's  a  good  deal  more 
madness  abroad  in  modern  life  than  most  of  us  suspect.  But 
I  'm  sane  enough  to  let  you  keep  Chicho,  sane  enough  even  to 
be  glad  you  've  got  him.' 

When  they  parted  they  shook  hands. 

'  Promise  me  one  thing,'  Felix  said  as  he  was  going. 

'Well?' 

'If  you  ever  see  her  you'll — you  '11  go  back  on  what  you  've 
done.     You  'U  try  to  stop  her  ?  ' 

'  D'  you  mean  to  say  you  could  trust  me  to  do  that,  if  I 
promised  ? ' 

'Yes,  I  thiakso.' 


FELIX  885 

'All  rieiht.  But  I  shan't  see  her.  Mr.  Ismey  would  kill  me 
if  I  did.'  ^ 

'  Mr.  Ismey !' 

'  He  's  a  man.' 

Her  voice  sounded  something  like  a  schoolboy's  when  she 
said  that. 

'And  besides — you  say  you  care  for  truth?' 

•  Yes,  rather  ! ' 

'Then— it's  too  late.' 

Felix  felt  as  if  a  stone  fell  upon  his  heart  and  crushed  it. 
He  made  no  answer  and  went  out  slowly. 

When  he  got  home  he  found  that  Chicho  had  eaten  a  morsel 
of  food.  The  little  dog  whined  feebly  when  he  saw  Felix,  and 
crawled,  almost  eagerly,  towards  him. 

'Chicho,  get  well,  get  well!'  Felix  whispered  to  him 
passionately. 

He  bent  down  and  stroked  Chicho  with  the  hand  the  dog 
had  bitten. 


•  B 


CHAPTER     XXIX 

FELIX  resolutely  put  away  from  his  mind  Lady  Caroline's 
last  words.  Perhaps  the  cure  of  Chicho  helped  him  to  do 
so.  He  called  in  a  *vet.',  who  examined  the  little  dog  care- 
fully and  then  looked  curiously  at  Felix. 

'  Have  you  had  this  dog  long,  sir?'  he  asked. 

*  No,'  said  Felix. 

*  You  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  it,  I  suppose  ? ' 
'And  if  I  do?' 

The  man  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 

'  Had  him  from  a  doctor,  sir  ? '  he  asked  at  length. 

'  No.' 

'Well,  some  one's  been  trying  experiments  on  him.  Very 
nasty  ones  too.  You'd  better  let  me  have  him  with  me  for  a 
bit.  I  think  I  can  get  him  right  for  you.  But  it'll  take  a 
little  while.' 

'Cure  him,'  said  Felix.     '  And  I'll  give  you  what  you  like.' 

The  '  vet.'  looked  surprised  at  his  hot  earnestness.  When 
he  took  the  little  dog  away  with  him  Chicho  showed  uneasi- 
ness.    He  evidently  wished  to  stay  with  Felix. 

*  You'll  be  very  kind  to  him  ' '  Felix  said.  '  You'll  promise 
me  that  ?  ' 

'  Lor'  bless  you,  sir,  yes.  He'll  be  all  right  with  me  when 
he's  settled  down.      It's  only  the  leaving  you  he  don't  like.' 

'  I  know.' 

He  felt  very  lonely  without  Chicho  ;  but  a  few  weeks  later, 
when  the  little  dog  returned,  he  was  triumphantly  happy  for  a 
moment.  Chicho  was  transformed.  For  the  first  time  Felix 
saw  in  him  the  amorous  gaiety  of  the  normal  dog,  eager  for 
kindness,  and  rapturously  delighted  with  any  attention. 
When  he  was  first  put  down  in  the  room  he  seemed  a  little 
doubtful,  a  little  timid.  He  cowered  humbly  when  Felix  bent 
to  stroke  him.  But  as  soon  as  he  felt  secure  of  affection  his 
spirits  revived  and  completely  overcame  him.  He  burst  into 
shrieking  barks,  tore  round  and  round  the  room,  jumping  on 
and  off  the  chairs  and  divan,  rolled  over  on  his  back  to  be 

386 


FELIX  387 

stroked,  and  seemed  almost  hysterical  with  joy  and  confi- 
dence. His  tail  wagged  ceaselessly,  and  his  paw  was  con- 
tinually extended  to  be  shaken. 

The  transformation  was  so  wonderful  that  Felix  dared  to 
hope  for  another  transformation,  which  seemed  sometimes  to 
be  beyond  hoping  for. 

Is  not  freewill  the  Devil's  gift?  Often  Felix  asked  him- 
self that  question.  He  asked  it  of  himself  again  as  he  car- 
essed the  leaping,  writhing  little  dog  over  whom  he  had  played 
the  autocrat.     She  had  that  gift,  and  how  was  she  using  it  ? 

Mr.  Ismey  was  perpetually  away  from  London.  It  was 
evident  that  he  knew  of  his  wife's  relapse,  that  he  was  keeping 
away  from  her  deliberately.  He  had  made  his  effort  and  it  had 
failed.  Now  what  was  he  doing  ?  What  did  he  mean  to  do  ? 
Felix  guessed  that  he  was  travelling  about  with  his  despair, 
that  he  carried  in  his  heart  Lady  Caroline's  words  :  'It's  too 
late.' 

Was  it  too  late  ? 

Only  now  that  he  came  to  fight  Mrs.  Ismey's  vice,  did  he 
begin  fully  to  understand  its  power  over  her.  Lady  Caroline 
had  told  him  that  Mrs.  Ismey  was  a  morphia-type,  one  of  the 
mysterious.  Alice  told  him  the  same  thing.  Mrs.  Ismey's 
desire  for  concealment  amounted  to  a  mania.  Even  now  that 
his  eyes  were  at  last  open  to  her  true  condition  she  continued 
to  pretend.  Only  her  pretence  took  a  different  form.  She 
acknowledged  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  morphia  habit,  but 
she  declared  that  she  had  given  it  up.  The  occurrences  at 
Eldon  Sands  had,  she  said,  brought  her  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
danger  she  was  in.  For  that  night  had  been  a  tragic  one. 
The  hotel  had  been  roused  by  her  struggle  with  Alice,  by  her 
screams.  The  two  sisters,  the  manageress,  the  servants,  had 
seen  her  forced  away  from  the  hall  door  and  up  the  stairs  to 
her  bedroom. 

'The  horror  of  it  all  has  cured  me  for  ever,' she  said  to 
Felix  in  London.  '  Can  you  wonder  ?  I  loathe  the  very  idea 
of  morphia  now.     I  would  rather  die  than  touch  it.' 

She  spoke  with  so  much  conviction,  and  looked  at  him  with 
such  sincere  eyes,  that  for  a  moment  he  believed  her. 

'And  besides,'  she  added,  looking  down,  'now  I  know 
that — now  you  have  told  me — well,  you  understand  what  I 
mean,  I  feel  that  I  would  do  anything  for  you.  A  woman  is 
so  helped  by  having  some  one  who  really  cares.  It  makes 
all  the  difference  to  her.' 

'  But  he  cares,'  Felix  said. 


388  FELIX 

'  Not  as  you  do,'  she  answered,  with  a  quick  glance  at  him. 
'  With  him  it  isn't  what  the  woman  does  that  matters,  it's 
what  his  wife  does.' 

She  had  never  told  Felix  plainly  what  she  felt  towards  him, 
and  he  did  not  know.  Sometimes  he  thought  she  loved  him. 
Sometimes,  more  often,  he  thought  she  had  become  incapable 
of  love,  that  morphia  had  affected  not  only  her  brain  but  her 
heart.  Alice  stood  for  the  truth  to  him.  The  crude,  hard 
'  determination  to  look  truth  in  the  face,  even  if  his  eyes  were 
blinded  by  it,  remained  with  him  and  did  not  falter.  Through 
Alice  he  knew  that  Mrs,  Ismey  lied  to  him  every  day.  Some- 
times he  wondered  pitilessly  how  that  feeling  in  his  heart 
could  continue  to  live  on  under  the  blows  that  fell  perpetually 
upon  it.  Why  could  she  not  slay  it  ?  At  moments  he  was 
ashamed  of  its  incapacity  for  death.  But  there  were  other 
moments  in  which  he  gloried  in  that  incapacity,  and  dreamed 
of  her  final  salvation  through  it.  Could  not  a  love  which  was 
able  to  endure  her  lies,  her  constant,  restless  endeavour  to 
trick  it,  her  limitless  deception,  and  those  other  horrors  which 
come  in  the  train  of  morphia  :  dirt,  carelessness  in  dress,  in- 
describable disorders  of  existence  and  of  health,  some  of  which 
cannot  be  wholly  concealed — could  not  such  a  love  conquer 
even  such  a  tyranny  as  that  of  thepigurel 
Alternately  he  hoped  and  he  despaired. 
He  would  not  leave  London. 

Even  the  strange  and  tender  thoughts  which  had  come  to 
him  when  he  received  his  mother's  news  about  Margot  found 
no  more  footing  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  no  longer 
any  capacity  which  was  not  pressed  into  Mrs.  Ismey's  service. 
He  strove  for  her  and  had  no  force  for  any  other  battle. 

But  one  day  he  was  utterly  sick  at  heart.  His  love,  his 
strife,  everything  seemed  to  him  vain. 

It  was  an  afternoon  of  May,  the  month  in  which  the  birth 
of  Margot's  child  was  expected.  The  sun  was  shining 
brightly.  The  air  was  full  of  spring,  even  the  air  of  the  great 
city.  The  windows  of  Felix's  flat  were  opened,  and  the  roar 
of  the  season's  merry  traffic  in  Victoria  Street  filled  his  little 
sitting-room.  Chicho  was  curled  up  on  the  divan,  dreaming 
comfortably  with  half-shut  eyes  ;  but  Felix  sat  there  alone, 
with  his  hands  dropped  down  between  his  knees,  staring  at  the 
carpet.  He  had  never  before  felt  so  hopeless,  so  utterly 
wretched,  not  even  when  Alice  told  him  the  truth  in  the 
billiard-room  at  Eldon  Sands. 

All  his  endeavours  had  been  useless.     Mrs.  Ismey's  passion 


FELIX  389 

for  morphia  was  rapidly  increasing.  Alice  found  it  hopeless 
to  struggle  with  her,  impossible  to  contend  against  her  almost 
ape-like  cunning. 

'Unless  she's  locked  up,  sir,'  the  maid  had  said  to  Felix, 
*  she'll  find  the  means  to  get  the  filthy  stuff.  She  bribes  the 
men-servants  to  bring  it  her  when  I'm  not  by.  She  hides 
it  in  places  you'd  never  think  to  look  in.  It's  no  use,  sir.  I 
can't  keep  her  from  it.  I'm  tired  .out  with  trying,  sir.  I've 
done  my  best  and  you  know  it,  but  I  think  I  shall  go.' 

*  Alice  ! '  he  exclaimed  in  despair. 

The  maid  looked  down.  She  was  very  pale,  and  there  was 
a  dogged  expression  on  her  face. 

'  I'm  sorry,  sir,'  she  said,  '  but  I  don't  think  I  can  stand  it 
any  longer.  And — well,  sir,  there's  a  young  man  who  wishes 
to  marry  me.' 

'Oh.' 

'  And  he  says  he  won't  wait  for  me  any  more.  I'm  sorry, 
sir,  but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go.' 

'  What  will  become  of  her  ?  ' 

'Who's  to  say,  sir  ? ' 

So  long  as  Alice  remained  with  Mrs.  Ismey  Felix  felt  that  at 
least  there  was  some  one  perpetually  near  her  who  was  fight- 
ing against  her  tyrant.  But  Alice  was  going.  Her  de- 
parture seemed  the  beginning  of  some  fearful  end. 

'  What  am  I  to  do  ?'  he  thought.     *  What  can  I  do  ? ' 

His  brain  was  dull  with  misery,  dull  and  heavy.  The  street 
noises  sounded  to  him  far  off,  and  very  sad.  The  soft  spring 
sunshine  on  his  face  was  like  a  sickly  glare  to  him.  Vaguely  he 
felt  that  everything  in  humanity,  everything  in  nature,  was 
joyless,  if  not  actually  hideous.  Helplessness  and  wickedness 
lay  like  a  cancer  at  the  heart  of  the  world.  He  was  tired  out 
with  it  all.  He  was  without  strength.  There  was  no  efficacy 
in  him.  Dully,  as  he  sat  there  in  the  sunshine,  he  thought  of 
many  things,  like  one  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  ill-spent  life. 
He  thought  of  his  arrival  in  France,  of  his  young  eagerness 
in  facing  that  which  was  new.  What  a  boy  he  was  then,  and 
what  a  fool  every  boy  is  !  Those  keen  feelings  he  had — they 
were  dust  flung  by  some  malign  Creator  into  the  eyes  of  his 
heart.  Yes,  they  were  dust  ;  dust  the  sadness  that  seemed 
beautiful  ;  the  romantic  passion  so  vague,yet  so  strong  ;  the 
longing  to  do  some  great  deed,  to  help  some  one,  to  be  kind 
or  noble,  that  had  flowed  over  his  soul  when  he  heard  the 
water  murmuring  round  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  the  dis- 
tant music  on  the  wooded  island,  as  the  twilight  sank  to 


390  FELIX 

darkness.  Then  he  had  longed  to  accomplish  a  great  deed 
— now  he  had  tried  to  do  a  small  one.  And  how  utterly  he 
had  failed.     Dust  !     Dust  ! 

He  thought  of  his  days  in  the  forest.  He  saw  it  again  as 
he  sat  there  by  Chicho.  Bars  of  sunlight  lay  over  the  Chinese 
idols.  With  their  narrow,  satirical  eyes  they  had  watched  the 
opening  of  that  flower  which  was  surely  withering  already, 
withering  in  the  cruel  spring.  How  he  had  longed  for  life,  in 
the  forest  !  The  tailor  had  found  life  hard  in  Paris,  but  Felix 
had  never  thought  it  could  be  hard  for  him  in  London,  He 
meant  to  do  so  much,  to  learn  so  much.  And  he  had  learnt 
that  he  was  powerless  to  accomplish  the  only  thing  he  cared 
for  ;  and  what  had  he  done  ?  He  had  saved  a  dog  from  an 
ugly  fate,  and  had  perhaps  helped  to  save  a  man.  For  Chicho 
lay  there  dreaming  happily,  and  Hal  Blake,  moved  at  last  by 
the  misery  and  prayers  of  his  wife,  and  by  the  representations 
of  Felix,  perhaps  too  by  his  own  natural  good  sense,  which 
drink  had  not  yet  wholly  drowned,  having  terminated  the 
contract  which  bound  him,  had  not  entered  into  another.  He 
had  agreed  to  take  a  short  holiday,  and  to  go  down  to  Dover 
to  spend  it  with'the  kids,'  Somehow  Felix  fancied  that  he 
would  stay  there.  Once  more  in  the  old  place,  among  the 
old  '  pals,'  with  a  happy  wife  and  the  children  he  had  missed, 
once  more  by  the  familiar  sea  and  the  white  cliffs,  it  was  not 
unlikely  that  he  would  forget  his  brief  spell  of  fame.  And  if 
he  did  not,  perhaps  he  would  be  forgotten.  Already  he  was 
less  of  a  sensation  than  he  had  been,  and  his  manager  talked 
of  his  keeping  out  of  London  for  a  time  and  trying  a  tour  of 
the  provinces.  To-day  Felix  chose  to  place  him  with  Chi- 
cho in  safety,  and,  contemplating  them  in  thought,  to  say, 
'  That  is  what  I  have  done.'  And  he  said  it  bitterly.  It  was 
something,  but  how  little.     Dust !     Dust  ! 

The  tailor  had  told  him  that,  if  he  ever  returned  to  the 
forest,  he  must  come  back  and  say  that  he  was  happy.  That 
could  never  be.  And,  as  he  sat  there,  he  thought  that  he  would 
never  go  back  to  the  forest,  would  never  see  the  tailor  again. 
To  do  so  would  surely  be  intolerable,  even  as  the  tailor's 
return  from  Paris  had  been  intolerable.  The  tailor  fled  from 
the  comments  of  the  neighbours.  Felix  wished  that  he  could 
flee  from  the  comments  of  his  own  soul.  Dust  !  Dust  !  Im- 
potent creature  !  He  thought  of  himself  fired  by  Balzac  with 
wild  ambitions.  Had  he  not  been  as  the  silly  housemaid  who 
is  fired  by  the  Family  Herald  \v\X.h.  the  ambition  to  wed  an 
Earl  ?     His  flaming  heart  of  old  time  seemed  to  him  vulgar  as 


FELIX  391 

an  illuminated  hovel,  in  which  the  radiance  reveals  the  decay, 
the  emptiness,  the  grimy  corners  where  the  cobwebs  hang. 

He  remembered  the  sound  of  the  Angelus  bell,  and  how  it 
had  struck  in  his  fancy  like  a  silver  ray  across  the  dusky  fire 
of  the  lamps  of  Paris,  and  how,  sitting  in  the  ruined  chapel 
of  La  Maison  des  Alouettes,  he  had  been  filled  with  terror  at 
the  idea  of  a  calm  God  watching  over  the  frantic  and  aimless 
activities  of  His  creatures.  Was  there  such  a  God  ?  Was 
He  looking  down  at  Mrs.  Ismey  hiding  the  morphia  needle 
beneath  some  fold  of  her  torn  gown,  or  sitting  up  in  her  dis- 
ordered bed,  when  Alice  slept,  to  feed  her  wounded  body 
with  the  poison  that  was  destroying  it  ? 

Why  not?  Such  a  God,  so  calm,  would  be  a  suitable 
figurehead  for  the  irony  of  things. 

Chicho  moved,  raised  his  black  muzzle,  growled.  Felix, 
who  had  been  bending  forward,  as  despairing  people  do, 
lifted  himself  up  with  an  effort.  There  was  a  tap  at  the  door 
and  his  servant  looked  in, 

'  Will  you  see  a  lady,  sir  ?  * 

'  Who  is  it  ? ' 

The  man  handed  him  a  card. 

'  Mrs.  Francis  Ismey.' 

The  card  was  covered  with  brown  smears. 

'Yes,'  Felix  said. 

In  two  or  three  minutes  Mrs.  Ismey  walked  in.  Felix  saw 
at  once  that  she  was  under  the  influence  of  morphia.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  black  gown,  the  skirt  of  which  was  caked 
with  dry  mud.  Her  hat  was  pushed  on  one  side  of  her  head. 
Her  hair  was  untidy.  She  had  no  gloves  on,  and  her  hands 
were  filthily  dirty  and  covered  with  rings,  whose  jewels  em- 
phasised their  degradation.  Felix  noticed  that  her  boots  were 
not  properly  buttoned  and  did  not  match.  She  was  smiling 
dreamily  as  she  came  in.  Her  face  was  daubed  with  paint, 
very  badly  put  on.  She  looked  terrible  ;  ill  and  fantastic, 
but  contented,  abominably  contented  in  her  dirt  and  disorder, 
as  if  she  were  a  pretty  woman  exquisitely  conscious  of  her 
own  beauty,  and  of  the  perfection  of  her  toilet. 

Chicho  barked  violently  when  he  saw  her,  as  he  would 
have  barked  at  a  tramp. 

Felix  laid  his  hand  on  the  little  dog  and  held  him  down. 
The  servant  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  door,  staring  at  Mrs. 
Ismey  with  a  faint  and  knowing  smile.  Then  he  went  out. 
Chicho  kept  on  barking  furiously. 

*  A  dog  ! '  said  Mrs.  Ismey  slowly.     *  You've  got  a  dog  ? ' 


392  FELIX 

Evidently  she  did  not  recognise  Chicho.  Felix  picked 
him  up  and  carried  him  out  into  the  bedroom. 

'  What  are  you  doing  ? '  said  Mrs.  Ismey's  voice  behind 
him.    *  What  are  you  doing  with  that  dog  ?  Doggie  !  Doggie  !  ' 

Felix  turned  hastily  round  from  Chicho,  whom  he  had  put 
down  on  the  bed,  and  found  Mrs,  Ismey  coming  in  at  the 
door.  There  was  still  a  smile  on  her  painted  face.  She  looked 
as  if  she  were  feeling  sly  and  jocose,  and  were  just  about  to 
do  something  which  she  considered  funny  and  surprising, 

Chicho's  hair  bristled  up  and  he  showed  all  his  teeth. 
Felix  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  Mrs.  Ismey's  arm  to  lead  her 
back  to  the  sitting-room,  but  directly  he  touched  her  she 
shrank  away  as  if  she  felt  an  intolerable  pain. 

*  Don't ! '  she  said,     '  Don't  ! ' 

Felix  had  noticed  recently  that  she  could  not  endure  him 
to  clasp  her  bare  hand.  Once,  when  he  had  pressed  it  in  meet- 
ing her,  she  had  started  violently,  and  immediately  after- 
wards he  had  seen  drops  of  perspiration  rolling  down  her  face. 
Now  the  smile  had  left  her  lips  and  her  hands  were  shaking. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon  ! '  he  exclaimed.     '  Have  I ?' 

*  It's  brutal  to  do  that  to  me  ! '  she  interrupted  excitedly. 
Her  face  was  contracted. 

'  I  brutal  to  you  !     But  I  scarcely  touched  you  !' 

*  It  hurts  me  to  be  touched  ! ' 

He  did  not  understand  how  painfully  sensitive  the  skin  of 
the  habitual  morphia-taker  becomes,  but  he  saw  that  she  had 
really  suffered  under  his  hand,  and  felt  tender  over  her. 

*  Forgive  me  ! '  he  exclaimed.  '  Forgive  me  !  You  know 
it  was  an  accident.  I  only  want  to  save  you  from  pain  and 
suffering,' 

'  Pain  and  suffering — oh  yes  ! ' 

They  were  in  the  sitting-room  now.     He  shut  the  door. 

*  How  dreadful  this  glare  is  ! '  she  said. 

*  I'll  pull  down  the  blinds,' 

He  went  over  to  the  windows.  Meanwhile  she  sat  down 
on  the  divan,  and  stretched  out  her  arms.  She  began  to 
yawn.  Felix  drew  down  the  blinds.  They  were  white  and 
did  not  shut  out  the  sun  very  well.     The  room  remained  light. 

'Will  that  do  ? '  he  asked. 

She  tried  to  stop  yawning  and  to  answer  him,  but  could  not. 
He  glanced  at  her,  saw  what  was  happening,  and  looked 
down.  There  was  a  silence  of  two  or  three  minutes,  broken 
twice  by  attempts  on  her  part  to  speak,  attempts  which  were 
immediately  smothered.     At  last  she  got  up, still  yawning, 


FELIX  393 

walked  to  the  window  and  back  again.  Her  hat  had  fallen 
quite  to  one  side.  She  kept  on  lifting  and  dropping  her  arms. 
Then  she  put  up  one  hand  to  the  front  of  her  dress,  and  be- 
gan trying  to  unbutton  it  with  trembling  fingers. 

'  Let  me — let  me  get  you  something/  said  Felix. 

A.  rush  of  heat  went  over  his  body  as  if  he  stepped  into  a 
hothouse. 

'  Some  tea  ? ' 

She  nodded.  She  was  still  walking  about.  He  rang  the 
bell,  and  when  he  heard  the  servant  coming,  hurried  to  the 
door  and  gave  his  order, 

*As  quickly  as  possible  !' 

*  Yes,  sir.' 

He  heard  the  man  speaking  to  some  one  on  the  landing  out- 
side, and  the  sound  of  a  laugh.  A  sort  of  desperation  came 
into  his  heart,  a  longing  for  violent  action.  When  he  came 
back  into  the  room  Mrs.  Ismey  was  sitting  down  again  on  the 
divan,  leaning  against  the  cushions  as  if  she  were  utterly 
exhausted.  She  had  stopped  yawning.  Her  face  had  become 
extraordinarily  inexpressive  and  rigid, and  she  seemed  to  know 
that  it  had,  for  when  she  saw  Felix  she  made  a  violent,  fleeting 
grimace,  a  sort  of  fierce  muscular  exertion  to  look  normal. 

'  We  shall  have  the  tea  in  a  moment,'  he  said,  trying  to 
speak  easily. 

'How  cold  it  is  to-day  ! '  she  replied,  in  a  dull  voice. 

'  But  it's  the  hottest  day  we've  had  !  ' 

'  No,  it's  bitter,  like  winter.' 

She  shivered.  He  noticed  that,  despite  the  paint  on  her 
cheeks,  she  looked  to-day  like  an  old  woman.  In  her  face 
was  plainly  written  the  story  of  her  mania.  Here  and  there, 
where  her  skin  was  not  painted,  it  showed  a  hideous  leaden- 
grey  hue.  There  were  deep  and  long  wrinkles  round  her  eyes. 
The  eyes  themselves  were  hollow,  devoid  of  light.  They 
scarcely  looked  human, for  no  soul  seemed  to  gaze  out  through 
them.  Felix  thought  they  were  like  the  windows  of  a  deserted 
house  in  which  the  shattered  glass  had  been  replaced  by  boards. 

'What  made  you  think  of  coming  to-day  ? '  he  asked. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say,  how  to  look  natural.  There 
was  despair  in  his  heart,  and  a  sort  of  physical  fear  of  her 
which  he  had  never  felt  before.  At  this  moment  her  feeble- 
ness disappeared.  With  a  brus(iue  movement,  like  the 
movement  of  a  strong  woman,  she  got  up  and  once  more 
began  to  walk  about  the  room,  smiling. 

'What  made  you  ?'  he  asked  again. 


394  FELIX 

'  I'll  tell  )'0u  presently,'  she  replied. 

*  Did  you  know  Alice  had  a  young  man  ?'  she  added  incon- 
sequently. 

Felix  said  nothing.  But  his  physical  horror  increased, 
and  his  imagination,  too,  began  to  shrink  as  if  it  longed  to 
escape  into  some  distant  region. 

She  stopped  in  front  of  him. 

'  Yes,  Alice  has  a  young  man,  and  she's  in  love  with  him.' 

The  servant  came  in  with  tea.  While  he  was  placing  it  on 
the  table  Mrs.  Ismey  went  on  speaking. 

'  She's  madly  in  love  with  him=  D'you  know  Felix,  I 
really  believe  that  she'd ' 

'That's  all  right  !  '  Felix  said  in  a  loud  voice  to  the  man. 
'I'll  arrange  it.     That  will  do.' 

'  Felix,  are  you  listening  ?     I  say,  I'm  almost  certain ' 

'  I  know  all  about  it,'  he  said,  still  in  the  loud,  uneasy  voice. 

The  servant  went  out,  as  if  reluctantly. 

'  I  must  take  off  my  hat,'  she  said. 

She  took  it  off  and  laid  it  down  on  the  divan.  Her  hair 
was  very  untidy  indeed.  She  put  up  her  hands  to  arrange  it, 
but  only  increased  its  disorder  by  her  trembling  movements. 

'  Alice  is  so  much  in  love,'  she  continued,  still  smiling, 
'that  she  wants  to  leave  me  and  be  married.  Isn't  it  silly 
to  want  to  be  married  ?' 

He  was  just  going  to  give  her  a  cup  of  tea,  but,  noticing  how 
her  hands  were  shaking,  he  put  it  down  on  the  table  near  her. 

'When  does  she  think  of  being  married  ? '  he  asked,  trying 
to  speak  very  calmly  to  keep  her  calm. 

'  Directly.' 

'  She  is  leaving  you  directly  ? ' 

'Yes.' 

The  smile  left  her  lips  and  her  face  became  rigid  again, 
and  almost  without  expression,  like  a  mask  on  which  a  faint 
look  of  empty  fatigue  has  been  painted. 

'  But — but  what  will  you  do  without  her  .? ' 

For  answer  she  suddenly  began  to  cry  feebly. 

'  Don't,'  he  said,  feeling  pitiful  again  directly,  and  losing 
his  disgust  and  physical  fear.     '  Don't  !     What  is  it  ? ' 

'  I  don't  want  to  be  left  alone.     I'm  afraid  to  be  left  alone.' 

She  went  on  crying,  and  made  no  attempt  to  hide  her  face 
or  to  dry  her  tears.  She  cried,  looking  at  him.  There  was 
something  dreadfully  unnatural  about  that. 

'  You  are  not  alone.  I — I  would  always  do  anything  for 
you.' 


FELIX  395 

She  stopped  crying  abruptly,  came  to  the  divan  and  sat 
down  close  beside  him. 

'■  Dear  Felix  ! '  she  said. 

A  sort  of  vague,  amorous  sweetness  floated  over  her. 

'  Will  you  do  something  for  me  ? '  she  said.  *  Will  you 
really  ?' 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  touch  him,  but  quickly  drew  it  back. 

*  No,  no,  that  hurts  ! '  she  murmured.     '  But  will  you  .'' ' 

*  What  is  it  ? '  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  her. 

*  Will  you — could  you  lend  me  a  hundred  pounds  ? ' 

She  tried  to  make  her  squirrel's  face  at  him,  but  her 
features  refused  to  obey  her  desire.  The  only  result  of  her 
effort  was  a  slight  distortion  of  her  mouth. 

'  Why  do  you  want  it .-' '  he  said  almost  sternly. 

*  Don't  be  angry.     If  you  only  knew ' 

*  Tell  me  why  you  want  it .''     Is  it  to  go  to  Paris  again  ? ' 
She  hesitated. 

'  Yes,'  she  said  at  last,  with  an  air  of  sincerity. 
'You  tell  me  that  !' 

*  I — I  want  to  go  to  Barreille.' 
'  Barreille  ?     The  doctor?' 

*  Yes.  Oh,  Felix,  the  longing  for  morphia  won't  go,  won't 
leave  me.  I  never  take  it,  you  know  I  don't.  I'd  rather  die. 
But  I  can't  help  longing  for  it.  And  I  think  if  only  I  could 
see  Barreille  he  might  take  the  desire  away.' 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  simple  earnestness,  looking  at 
him  narrowly  to  see  how  he  took  her  words.  And  he  looked 
at  her,  and,  when  she  was  silent,  sat  for  a  moment  in  silence. 
The  knowledge  that  she  was  lying  seared  him  like  hot  iron 
pressed  against  the  live  thing  that  was  his  soul. 

'Will  you  do  it?'  she  said,  still  with  the  vague  amorous 
sweetness  and  the  intent  eyes. 

'  Do  it  ! '  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of  fierce  firm- 
ness.    '  I'll  do  anything  if  you  will Look  here  !     I  can't, 

I  won't  endure  it  any  more.  If  he — if  your  husband  has  given 
it  all  up,  I'll  be  stronger  than  he.  I'll  fight  you, for  yourself. 
I'll  win  you  for  yourself.  He  despairs,  Alice  despairs — then 
they  don't  love  you — they  can't.  But  you  shan't  go  down, 
you  shan't  go  under.    There  is  a  chance,  there  must  be  a  cure.' 

'A  cure  !     But,  Felix,  it  was  I  who ' 

'Hush!  Hush!  Don't  lie  any  more!  My  God,  why 
can't  you  stop  lying  to  me  ?  I  know  why  you  want  to  go  to 
Paris — to  visit  those  cursed  clubs.  But  you  shall  go  to  Paris. 
I'll  take  you.     I'll  take  you  to  Barreille  myself.     I'll   watch 


396  FELIX 

you.  I'll  never  leave  you  for  a  moment.  You  shan't  trick 
me.  Oh,  I've  been  a  fool.  I've  left  you  in  other  people's 
hands.  I've  trusted  you  to  Alice  because — I've  thought  of 
the  world,  what  was  possible,  what  people  would  say  I  And 
now  I  see  you  there — oh,  it's  too  horrible,  too  abominable  ! 
But  now  I  know  what  to  do.  I'll  throw  everythmg  to  the 
winds  and  save  you  myself,  I'll  be  with  you.  I'll  watch  you. 
I  don't  care  for  anything — I'll ' 

A  passion  of  energy,  of  excitement,  of  reckless,  furious 
determination  flamed  up  in  him.  He  wanted  to  sweep  her 
husband,  Alice,  every  one  away  from  her,  to  have  her  to 
himself  that  he  might  act,  dare,  command,  tear  her  vice  out 
of  her,  cut  it  out  as  the  surgeon  cuts  out  a  tumor  that  is 
eating  into  the  tissues  of  the  body  and  drawing  near  to  the 
sources  of  life. 

A  tap  at  the  door  broke  in  coldly  upon  his  vehemence. 
For  an  instant  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  answer  it.  He 
could  only  stop  speaking  abruptly  and  sit  in  quivering, 
apprehensive  silence.  The  tap  was  repeated.  He  forced 
himself  to  say  '  Come  in  !  *     The  lift  man  appeared. 

'  If  you  please, sir.Mrs.  Wilding  to  see  you  ;  your  mother,sir.' 

'  My ' 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  man  stood  aside, 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  dress  rustling  in  the  little  passage, 
and  then  Mrs,  Wilding  walked  in.  She  was  pale,  so  pale  that 
Felix  noticed  it  even  in  that  moment  of  amazement  and  utter 
confusion. 

'  Mater  !  '  he  stammered,  springing  up,  and  instinctively 
placing  himself  between  her  and  Mrs.  Ismey.  '  You  in 
London  !  ' 

The  lift  man  disappeared. 

'  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  with  you,  Felix,'  said 
his  mother. 

'  Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Ismey,'  Felix  said,  with  an  almost  convul- 
sive attempt  at  naturalness  and  ease. 

He  moved  to  allow  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Ismey  to  meet. 
The  latter  had  put  on  her  hat  quickly,  fastening  it  anyhow 
on  her  disordered  hair.  Felix  was  filled  with  a  sick  conscious- 
ness of  the  extravagance  of  her  appearance.  She  assumed  a 
fixed  smile. 

'  Such  a  long  time  since  we  met  ! '  she  said  to  Mrs.  Wilding. 

The  smile  disappeared,  and  her  face  assumed  its  rigid 
look  of  a  mask. 

*  Yes,'  Mrs.  Wilding  answered. 


FELIX  397 

'  Sit  down,  mater.  You're  just  in  time  for  tea,'  Felix 
exclaimed,  pulling  up  a  chair  to  the  little  table. 

He  scarcely  knew  what  he  felt.  His  head  was  buzzing  and 
his  hands  were  frightfully  hot. 

*  Sit  down,  mater,'  he  repeated  mechanically. 

Mrs.  Wilding  sat  down  in  silence.  She  had  looked  at  Mrs. 
Ismey  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  away  her  eyes.  Felix 
began  to  pour  out  the  tea. 

'  I'd  no  idea  you  were  coming  up,'  he  went  on.  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  know  ?' 

He  felt  that  anything  was  bearable  but  silence. 

'  I  only  decided  to  come  this  morning,'  said  his  mother. 

It  had  struck  him  that  she  was  terribly  pale.  Now  it  struck 
him  that  there  was  a  strange,  unnatural  sound  in  her  voice. 
It  scarcely  seemed  to  be  the  voice  he  knew  so  well.  There  was 
something  odd  about  her  altogether,  but  he  did  not  know 
exactly  what  it  was. 

*  You  aren't  fond  of  London,  I  fancy?'  Mrs,  Ismey  said. 
*  Aren't  you — I  mean,  are  you  .'" 

She  was  smiling  again. 

'  No,  not  very,'  Mrs.  Wilding  replied.     '  I  find  it  tiring.' 

Felix  saw  her  look  for  a  moment  at  Mrs.  Ismey's  hands,  at 
her  hair.  A  sort  of  wondering  expression  came  into  her  white 
face  and  died  away  directly. 

'  Dear  me  !     How  funny  ! '  Mrs.  Ismey  said. 

She  began  to  laugh. 

*  How  funny  ! '  she  repeated,  in  a  stifled  voice.  *  Isn't  it, 
Felix  ?' 

She  went  on  laughing  till  her  aimless  mirth  became  intoler- 
able. Felix,  with  a  scarlet  face,  began  to  speak  to  his  mother, 
trying  to  ignore  Mrs.  Ismey  in  the  hope  that  she  would  re- 
cover herself. 

'All  right  at  home  ?'  he  said.     *  How's  Margot  ? ' 

'Pretty  well,'  his  mother  answered.  'But,  of  course,  just 
now '     She  stopped. 

She  was  trying  to  drink  her  tea,  but  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sound  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  laughter  prevented  her.  She  put  her 
cup  down  uneasily.  Felix  saw  her  shut  her  eyes  for  a  mom- 
ent, as  people  sometimes  do  when  they  are  undergoing  some 
strain  that  is  almost  unbearable  to  nerves  or  heart.  She 
sighed,  as  if  she  were  opi)ressed  both  physically  and  mentally. 

'What  do  you  find  tiring?'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ismey,  in  a 
voice  still  shaken  by  merriment. 

'  Oh,  it's  the  noise  of  the  traffic  and  all  that,'  Felix  answered 


898  FELIX 

hastily.  '  London  is  tiring,  you  know,  especially  to  people  who 
aren't  accustomed  to  it.     Are  you  going?' 

She  had  got  up  suddenly. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered. 

Her  mouth  gaped.  The  hideous,  convulsive  yawning  was 
beginning  again.     He  hurried  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

'Good-bye,'  Mrs.  Ismey  said  to  Mrs.  Wilding,  in  a  half- 
suffocated  voice,     *  I  'm  so to  have  met  you  again.' 

She  held  out  her  dirty  hand,  and,  just  as  Mrs.  Wilding  was 
going  to  take  it,  drew  it  away. 

'  Don't  forget  about  coming  to  Paris,'  she  said  to  Felix, 
speaking  slyly  and  like  a  person  in  a  great  hurry. 

It  was  the  last  thing  she  was  able  to  say  before  the  incessant 
yawning  swam  over  her  voice  like  a  sea,  drowning  it.  She  went 
out  of  the  room  holding  up  her  arms.  The  lift  man  was  outside 
on  the  landing. 

'  Take  this  lady  down,  please,'  Felix  said.  'And  if  her  carriage 
isn't  there' — Mrs.  Ismey  made  an  obvious,  violent  effort  to 
speak,  but  could  not — 'put  her  into  a  cab  and  tell  the  man  to 
go  to  looB  Green  Street,  Park  Lane.' 

He  saw  her  step  into  the  lift.  It  sank.  He  saw  her  painted 
face,  the  mouth  wide  open,  descend,  disappear  out  of  his  sight. 
For  a  moment  he  leaned  against  the  iron  cage.  Why  had  his 
mother  come  up  to-day?  He  felt  angry  with  her,  as  if  she  had 
come  up  to  spy  on  him.  He  was  not  himself.  The  turmoil  in 
his  heart,  love  struggling  against  despair,  the  desire  to  redeem 
against  a  sort  of  frenzy  of  disgust,  that  was  partly  physical,  drove 
his  brain  beyond  the  confines  of  pure  reasonableness.  There 
are  moments  when  a  man  is  so  tormented  by  circumstance  that, 
though  not  mad,  he  is  no  longer  natural.  His  normal  power  of 
control,  his  normal  faculty  of  seeing  things  as  they  are,  of  under- 
standing rightly  what  they  mean  to  him  and  to  others — these 
things  are  sapped  in  him.  So  it  was  now  with  Felix.  As  he 
stood  there  on  the  stone  landing,  leaning  against  the  iron  cage, 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  on  the  \  erge  of  some  outburst,  or  some 
breakdown  ;  as  if  at  a  word,  a  touch,  he  might  burst  into  tears 
or  i;ito  fury.  If  he  could  only  be  alone,  quite  alone,  even  for 
five  minutes  !  He  felt  as  if  he  could  not  go  back  to  his  mother, 
as  if,  unless  he  could  be  alone,  something  frightful  must  happen 
to  him.  He  stared  into  the  well  of  the  lift,  and  still  seemed  to 
see  a  painted  face  yawning  as  it  went  down,  down  into  Hell. 
No,  no.  Again  the  heat  of  desire  rushed  over  him.  He  was 
going  to  save  her.  He  was  born  for  that.  This  strange  love, 
resisting  such  hideous  attacks,  such  squalid  outrages,  was  given 


FELIX  399 

to  him  for  that.  But — his  mother.  He  gazed  almost  fearfully 
at  the  open  door  of  the  flat,  at  the  passage.  She  was  waiting  in 
there  for  him.  What  was  she  going  to  say,  to  do?  If  she 
spoke  of  Mrs.  Ismey,  if  she  tried  to  advise  him,  to  play  the 
mentor,  he  did  not  know,  but  he  thought  he  might  do  something 
horrible — turn  his  mother  out  with  a  fury  of  words,  or — he  did 
not  know.  Vaguely  he  prayed  for  self-control,  he  prayed  to  be 
allowed  to  feel  natural.  At  last  he  came  away  from  the  cage 
and  re-entered  the  flat.  He  shut  the  front  door.  As  he  diii  so 
he  heard  Chicho  whining  in  his  bedroom.  He  listened  for  an 
instant  and  then  walked  quickly  into  the  sitting-room.  He 
wondered  what  his  face  was  like. 

His  mother  was  still  sitting  by  the  tea-table.  She  had  not 
drunk  her  tea.  He  saw  that.  He  seemed  to  see  everything, 
to  be  unnaturally  observant  at  that  moment,  unnaturally  alive. 

'Well,  mater,  I  was  mostawfullv  astonished  to  see  you,' he  said. 

'  I  did  not  know  I  was  coming  till  this  morning,'  she  answered. 
'I  came  up  with  Stephen.' 

'  Stephen  !     Where  is  he,  then  r ' 

'  He  had  some  things  to  do.  I  expect  he  will  meet  me  at 
the  station  and  go — go  home  with  me.' 

Her  voice  trembled  slightly  as  she  said  the  last  words. 

'You— -I  suppose  you  couldn't  come  down  to-night?'  she 
said  hesitatingly. 

'  Where  ?  Home  ?  Oh  no,  I  'm  afraid  I  couldn't  possibly,' 
he  exclaimed  (juickly. 

The  idea  of  a  journey  with  his  mother  and  Stephen,  of  a 
dinner  with  his  mother,  a  long  evening,  was  horrible.  He  could 
not  stand  it,  and  he  added  decisively  : 

'  It 's  out  of  the  question.  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  've  got  an  engage- 
ment to-night.' 

'You — you  couldn't  possibly  give  it  up?' 

There  was  a  strange  sound  in  her  voice.  He  noticed  it  again. 
Her  persistence  too  was  odd,  not  like  her. 

'I  say,  is  there  anything  wrong  with  Margot?'  he  asked. 

'No.  Of  course  we  arc  very  anxious  about  her,  but  every- 
thing seems  to  be  going  pre  tty  well  so  far.' 

'  I  can't  ome  down  to-night.  I  say,  you've  never  drunk  your 
tea,  mater.' 

'Haven't  I?' 

A  sort  of  blank  look  came  into  his  mother's  gentle  face,  the 
look  that  often  precedes  a  fainting  fit.  It  passed  away  quickly. 
She  lifted  the  tea-cup  and  si[)|icd  her  tea. 

'What  time  is  it?'  she  asked. 


400  FELIX 

Felix  took  out  his  watch. 

'  Half-past  five.     What  train  d'you  mean  to  catch?' 

He  was  really  longing  to  be  alone,  and  was  thinking  what  a 
relief  his  mother's  departure  would  be,  but  he  did  not  mean  her 
to  know  it.  That  she  had  sensitively  understood  was  shown  by 
her  next  words. 

'  I  won't  keep  you,  Felix.  I  know  you  always  have  a  great 
deal  to  do.     I  can  wait  at  the  station  easily.' 

She  began  to  feel  for  her  icewool  shawl,  which  she  had  laid 
down  when  she  came  in.  It  was  lying  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
but  she  could  not  find  it.  Her  hands  looked  confused,  and  as 
if  they  were  groping  for  something  in  the  dark. 

'  Oh,  it 's  all  right,  mater.  There 's  no  hurry.  Drink  your 
tea,  do.' 

'  Where  is  my  shawl  ?  Oh — was  it  there  ?  I  didn't  see. 
Thank  you.' 

He  had  given  it  to  her.  She  put  it  round  her  throat  and 
got  up. 

'  I  say,  don't  hurry  off  like  that.  Mater,  I  didn't  mean  I  had 
anything  now,  only  that  I  was  engaged  to-night.' 

In  spite  of  his  almost  furious  desire  to  be  alone,  he  began  to 
feel  compunction.  He  had  not  seen  his  mother  for  so  long, 
he  saw  her  so  seldom,  that  he  knew  he  ought  not  to  show  what 
he  was  feeling.  To  do  so  would  be  cruel.  Yet  he  could  not 
help  knowing  that  he  must  have  done  so. 

'You  must  drink  your  tea  properly  and  have  something  to 
eat,'  he  exclaimed. 

'  No,  I  couldn't  eat  anything,  but  I  '11  just * 

She  began  to  drink  the  remainder  of  her  tea  standing  up 
She  finished  it  hastily  and  put  down  the  cup. 

'  I  ought  really  to  catch  the  six  o'clock  train  from  Charing 
Cross,'  she  said. 

'Did  you  arrange  to  with  Stephen?' 

'  Not  exactly.  No.  But  I  expect  he  will  be  there  for  that 
train.  We  were  to  take  our  chance  of  meeting.  He  had  to  go 
to  the  Church  House.' 

'Oh.' 

Her  last  sentence,  the  ideas  it  called  up,  made  him  feel  that, 
at  any  cost,  he  must  be  alone.  He  could  not  endure  clerical 
talk  at  that  moment.  He  forgot  his  mother  and  thought  of 
himself,  and  his  last  ejaculation  was  frigidly  cold,  meant  to 
repel  Stephen  and  Stephen's  affairs  from  the  conversation. 

'  Well,  I  'm — I  'm  glad  to  have  had  just  a  glimpse  of  my  son,' 
said  Mrs.  Wilding. 


FELIX  401 

She  tried  to  smile  brightly  but  her  lips  began  to  quiver.  She 
turned  away.     After  an  instant,  she  said  : 

*I  see  you've  hung  up  the  picture.' 

'  "  Love  and  Death  "  ? '  he  said.     '  Yes.' 

His  voice  was  very  cold.  That  picture  meant  too  much  to 
him  just  now. 

'  Love  and — death,'  Mrs.  Wilding  repeated. 

She  turned  round.     Her  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears. 

'  Look  here,  mater,'  Felix  said,  '  L  see  what  it  is.  You  're 
working  yourself  up  into  a  panic  about  Margot.  That's  silly. 
Think  of  the  millions  of ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  know.' 

'  But  you  are.  That 's  always  your  way.  You  spoil  your  life 
by  being  so  timid  about  everything,  always  fussing  about  your 
own  health  and ' 

'  Now  I  must  go,'  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  very  odd,  he  thought.  It  was  very  odd,  too, 
the  way  she  interrupted  him,  she  who  was  always  so  gentle,  so 
patient  a  listener. 

•Well,  do  try  to  be  less  nervous,'  he  said.  'You'll  be  twice 
as  happy.' 

He  opened  the  door.  Mrs.  Wilding  looked  all  round  his 
little  room  again,  slowly,  almost  like  a  person  who  is  taking  a 
silent  farewell  of  something.  She  stumbled  as  she  turned  to 
go  out  at  the  door.  Felix  put  out  his  hand,  but  drew  it  away 
when  he  saw  she  had  recovered  her  footing.  When  they  were 
in  the  dark  passage  she  said,  in  a  low  voice : 
Felix.' 

'Well,  mater?' 

'I  want  you — will  you  do  something  for  me?' 

'  Of  course,  if  I  can.     What  is  it  ? ' 

'Were  you  going  to  Paris?' 

'Surely  it  doesn't  matter  whether  I  do  or  not,'  he  burst  out 
hotly. 

In  a  moment  he  felt  on  the  verge  of  his  self-control  and  as  if 
anything  might  happen. 

'Surely,  mater,'  he  continued,  raising  his  voice  without  know- 
ing he  was  doing  so,  'surely  I  am  my  own  master  now.  At  the 
age  of ' 

'  I  only  wanted  to  ask  you  not  to  go  just  now.' 

Her  voice  sounded  half  ashamed. 

'Really,  mater,  I  don't  see  why.     If  I  go,  it  will  only  be  for 
a  few  days.     Everybody  runs  across  to  Paris.     It's  no  farther 
than——' 
ac 


402  FELIX 

'  I  know.     Never  mind.     Good-bye,  my  dear,  dear  boy.* 

He  had  opened  the  front  door  and  let  in  the  light  from  the 
landing.  His  mother  lifted  her  face  to  kiss  him.  Her  cheeks 
were  wet  with  tears.  He  wondered  why.  He  wished  she  would 
not  cry  so  easily  about  nothing.  He  bent  down,  rather  reluc- 
tantly. She  kissed  him  long  and  passionately.  It  was  he  who 
drew  away  his  face.  He  went  towards  the  cage  to  touch  the 
bell  for  the  lift.     But  suddenly  he  remembered. 

'  Oh,  you're  afraid  of — but  didn't  you  come  up  in  it?' 

'Yes.  I  met  the  conductor  at  the  bottom,  and — and  I 
remembered  you  didn't  like  my  walking.' 

'  It  is  nonsense,  but  if  you  'd  really  rather * 

'No,  no.     It  isn't  so  bad  as  I  expected.* 

The  lift  rose. 

'Good-bye,'  she  said. 

She  looked  at  her  son,  then  stepped  in  a  little  nervously. 

'  Good-bye,  mater.     All  right.' 

The  man  palled  the  cord  and  the  Hft  sank  down.  As  it  went, 
Felix  saw  his  mother's  large,  dark  eyes  gazing  up  to  catch  the 
last  glimpse  of  him.  There  were  still  tears  in  them,  and— he 
thought — a  strange,  intense  look  that  he  had  never  seen  in 
them  before,  that  he  had  not  thought  they  could  hold.  It  was 
a  yearning,  even  a  passionate  look. 

It  almost  frightened  him,  though  he  did  not  know  why.  A 
sudden  impulse  came  to  him  to  run  down,  to  meet  her  at  the 
bottom,  to  say — but  what  more  had  he  to  say  to  her?  Besides, 
it  was  too  late.  She  would  be  out  in  the  street.  She  would 
have  taken  a  cab  and  be  gone.     Of  course  she  would. 

Yet  he  did  go  down  some  steps,  driven  by  this  impulse. 
Then  he  stopped  and  mounted  slowly. 

Why  had  she  looked  at  him  like  that?  Some  words  from  the 
Bible  came  into  his  head:  ^The  Lord  tur?ied  and  looked  upon 
Feier: 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  me  to-day? '  he  said  to  himself. 

He  let  Chicho  out.  The  little  dog  jumped  up  at  him  eagerlv 
and  licked  his  hands.  Felix  pushed  him  away.  He  kept 
thinking  of,  and  even  repeating  to  himself,  those  words : 

^The  Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter. ^ 

Why  had  he  thought  of  them.  What  had  they  to  do  with 
him  and  with  his  mother? 


CHAPTER    XXX 

MRS.  ISMEY  had  said  to  Felix,  'Don't  forget  about 
coming  to  Paris,' and  she  had  said  it  after  his  onthurst, 
an  outburst  in  which,  however  confusedly,  however  brokenly, 
he  had  poured  forth  his  soul.  She  took  him  at  his  word,  then. 
She  tacitly  abandoned  her  practice  of  trying  to  surround  her 
vice  with  mystery,  of  warring  eternally  against  truth.  She 
accepted  him  as  her  protector,  and  put  herself  in  his  hands. 
He  was  glad.  For  the  fact  of  her  doing  so  surely,  in  a  manner, 
pledged  her  at  last  to  be  truthful  with  him.  In  his  joy  over 
this  Felix  asked  himself  whether  the  reason  she  had  given  for 
her  proposed  visit  could  have  been  the  true  one.  Could  she 
have  really  meant  to  visit  Barreille  on  her  own  account?  If 
so — but  no,  he  would  not  be  a  fool,  he  would  not  believe  it. 
Alice  was  truthful,  and  he  knew,  from  Alice,  the  web  of  deceit 
which  Mrs.  Ismey  was  for  ever  spinning.  Morphia  bred  in 
her  a  passion  for  subterfuge.  It  had  become  an  instinct  in 
her  to  pretend  that  she  had  given  up  the  mania  which  governed 
her  whole  life — an  ineradicable  instinct.  He  must  not  shut 
his  eyes  to  that.  Though  he  loved  her  he  must  watch  her  as 
one  would  watch  a  kleptomaniac  or  a  lunatic,  always  be  doubt- 
ful of  appearances,  always  be  on  his  guard.  He  must  not 
ho[)e  for  rock  on  which  to  rest  the  tired  feet  of  his  love.  Some 
day,  perhaps— but  not  yet. 

Still,  she  was  coming  with  him  to  Paris. 

He  meant  to  do  as  he  had  said,  to  be  with  her  always  in 
Paris,  never  to  leave  her  unwatrhed.  If  there  was  scandal, 
let  it  be  as  poisonous  as  it  wru  hi.  Let  it  e\ep  blacken  her 
reputation.  He  would  avoid  that  if  he  could.  He  would  be 
as  careful,  as  chivalrously  careful,  as  was  compatible  with  the 
end  he  had  set  himself.  Rut  his  resolve  to  savf  her  was  a  hard, 
almost  a  brutal  one.  He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  last  seen 
her  in  dirt  and  degradation,  laugl^ed  at  by  servants,  jeered  at — 
he  guessed,  he  knew  it — by  the  (hogs  of  London  in  the  streets, 
wondered  at  by  his  mother.  And,  when  he  thought  of  her 
thus,  called  up  the  vision  of  her  fearful  hands,  which  had  once 

MS 


404  FELIX 

been  so  beautiful,  of  her  painted,  yawning  mouth,  of  her  hollow, 
faded  eyes  and  disordered  hair,  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was 
right  to  be  audaciously  fearless  of  the  world  to  achieve  his  surely 
splendid  aim.  Mr.  Ismey  had  apparently  abandoned  her  in 
despair.  Then  he,  Felix,  would  take  his  place — he  would  at 
least  cherish  her  in  sickness.  He  wished  for  nothing  more. 
There  was  nothing  physical  in  his  love  now.  How  could  there 
be?  Since  the  moment  on  Eldon  Sands  when  she  took  his  arm 
Felix  had  never  thought  of  her  in  that  way.  The  foulness  of 
her  fault  at  least  kept  his  love  strangely  pure,  strangely  free  from 
the  promptings  of  the  flesh. 

Now  that  his  resolve  was  taken  he  could  not  wait.  It  must 
be  carried  out  at  once.  That  night  he  wrote  to  her  suggesting 
that  they  should  start  for  Paris  on  the  Thursday  morning.  It 
was  then  Tuesday.  She  replied,  in  a  blotted,  almost  unreadable 
scrawl,  that  she  could  not  be  ready  until  Friday,  and  that  she 
wished  to  go  by  the  night  train  and  boat.  He  guessed  the 
reason  of  this.  She  would  not  face  daylight.  He  yielded  to 
her  wishes.  On  Wednesday  evening,  just  after  he  had  written 
to  say  so,  Alice  called  to  see  him.  Since  she  had  told  him  that 
she  meant  to  leave  Mrs.  Ismey  Felix  had  felt  differently  about 
her.  He  could  not  be  quite  reasonable  in  his  love  and  unhappi- 
ness.  It  was  difficult  for  him  to  see  Alice's  point  of  view,  and, 
in  his  heart,  he  condemned  strongly  her  resolution  to  give  up 
her  place,  and  faintly  mistrusted  her  despite  the  proofs  of  good- 
will that  she  had  given  in  abundance  by  her  conduct  both  to 
Mrs.  Ismey  and  to  him.  Yet  he  was  glad  when  he  heard  her 
name.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  see  her  in  order  to  get 
Barreille's  address.  In  a  former  conversation  with  her  he  had 
made  himself  certain  that  Barreille  was  a  great  specialist  in 
morphia  cases,  that  he  had  achieved  cures  where  other  doctors 
had  failed,  and  that  he  Uved  in  Paris.  INIrs.  Ismey  sometimes 
mixed  a  little  truth  with  her  lies,  truth  that  she  thought  could 
not  interfere  with  the  passion  to  which  her  life  was  devoted. 

*  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Alice,'  Felix  said,  when  she  was  shown 
in.  '  I  've  got  several  things  to  say  to  you.  Please  sit  down. 
Oh,  but  first  tell  me  what  you've  come  for.' 

The  maid  sat  down  with  her  usual  quiet  primness. 

'  Well,  sir,  I  wanted  to  see  you  before  I  went,'  she  said,  in  her 
low,  and  yet  rather  emotional  voice,  which  matched  the  expres- 
sion in  her  pale,  round  face. 

'  You  are  really  going  soon  ? ' 

'Yes,  sir.  By  the  time  my  lady  comes  back  from  Paris  I  shall 
be  gone — if  she  goes  to  Paris.' 


FELIX  405 

•She  is  going,'  Felix  said  shortly. 
'So  you  say,  sir.' 

Felix  opened  his  lips  to  make  some  hasty  remark,  but  he 
checked  it. 

*  Go  on,  please,  Alice,'  he  said  quietly. 

'  Well,  sir,  I  know  you  think  rather  bad  of  me * 

She  stopped. 

'No,  Alice.' 

*Yes,  sir,  you  do,  for  going  like  this  and  leaving  my  lady.' 

'  I  would  rather  you  stopped,  certainly,'  he  said,  with  the 
determination  to  be  strictly  reasonable.  '  But  I  know  I  ought 
not  to  expect  you  to  sacrifice  your  future  prospects.  And  I 
know  of  course,  too,  that — well,  that  you  have  a  great  deal  to 
bear,  and  that  it  may  be  wearing  you  out.' 

'  I  think  it  is,  sir;  but  it's  not  only  that,  nor  Robert — that's 
my  young  man,  sir — saying  he  won't  wait  no  longer.  No,  sir; 
but  I  want  to  leave,  I  don't  want  to  be  sent  away.' 

'  Sent  away  ! '  he  exclaimed  in  surprise.  '  But  who  should 
send  you  away  ? ' 

'  Mr.  Ismey,  sir.' 

*  Mr.  Ismey  !     Has  he  come  back  ? ' 
*No,  sir,  not  yet.' 

'  But — but  I  thought  he  had  given  the  whole  thing  up  I' 
'Sir,  d'you  know  Mr.  Ismey  well?' 

*  Not  very  well,  no.' 

'There  's  a  lot  in  him,  sir,  for  all  he  seems  so  quiet.* 

Felix  remembered  that  he  had  always  wondered  what  Mr. 
Ismey  was  really  like,  and  had  never  felt  as  if  he  knew, 

'Yes  ?  '  he  said,  to  make  her  go  on. 

'He's  not  the  gentleman  to  give  a  thing  up,  sir,  not  when  he 
carts.' 

'  And  does — does  he  care  very  much  ?  ' 

Felix  hardly  knew  what  answer  he  wished  to  have  to  his 
question. 

'Sir,  he  loves  her.  That's  the  truth  of  it.  And  she's  break- 
ing his  heart.' 

She  was  silent.  Felix  said  nothing.  He  had  not  expected 
this  conversation  to  be  momentous. 

'  He  had  his  try,  sir,  and  when  it  didn't  do  and  he  saw  her 
getting  bad  again,  he  went  away.  But  I  know  him,  sir,  and  I 
know  he '11  come  back.  Mr.  Ismey 's  proud,  sir.  For  months 
he  knew  there  was  something  wrong  with  my  lady  and  her  lady- 
ship— Lady  Caroline,  sir — and  he  wouldn't  say  a  word  nor  try 
to  find  out  what  it  was.     He's  not  one  to  spy,  sir.     Where  he 


406  FELIX 

loves  he's  one  to  trust.      He  would  trust  her,  sir,  too  long. 
That 's  where  his  fault  was.' 
'  I  understand,'  Felix  said. 

He  thought  of  the  wedding  dinner  at  Churston  Waters,  of  the 
scene  in  the  office. 

•  But  now  he  knows,  sir,  he  '11  never  give  her  up.     He'll  come 
back  soon.     She  don't  think  it,  but  he  might  come  any  day. 
And  when  he  does  come  he  '11  send  me  off.' 
'  But  why  should  he  do  that  ?  ' 

'  Well,  sir,  he  was  nearly  doing  it  when  he  first  found  out, 
because  I  knew  it  and  never  told  him.  He  would  have,  only  I 
begged  so  hard  to  stop,  and  I  think  he  saw  I  did  care  for  my 
lady  and  wanted  her  to  get  right.  I  've  never  pandered  to  her, 
sir,  though  I  haven't  been  able  to  keep  her  off  the  filthy  stuff".' 

'  I  know,  Alice,  I  know.' 

'  But  when  he  gave  in  about  letting  me  stop — "Alice,"  he  said, 
"if  she  gets  bad  again,  you'll  go.  She  shall  have  a  keeper." 
Sir,  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  in  his  eyes  when  he  said  that. 
He  went  red  all  over  his  face  and  then  as  pale  as  a  cloth.  But  he 
would  say  it  again.  "  She  shall  have  a  keeper,"  he  said.  And 
what  he  says  he  '11  do.  So  what  with  that  and  Robert,  I  'd 
better  go,  sir.' 

'  I  see.     Yes,  I  suppose  you  had.' 

Felix  spoke  slowly.  What  he  had  just  heard  moved  him, 
seemed  to  bring  his  feet  to  the  edge  of  an  abyss.  He  was  con- 
scious of  being  near  a  void,  dark,  unfathomable.  He  looked 
into  it  but  could  see  nothing. 

*  I  've  a  note  from  my  lady,  too,  for  you,  sir.* 

'Oh.' 

He  took  it,  opened  it,  read  it. 

'  D'  you  know  what  this  is  ? '  he  said  to  Alice. 

'  She  wants  you  to  give  her  the  money,  sir,  for  Paris  ? ' 

•Yes.  She  says  she  has  none  at  all,  that  she  will  be  ashamed 
to  have  to  ask  me  for  it  for  every  little  thing  on  the  journey.' 

'  Don't  give  it  her,  sir.     Don't  give  her  a  penny.' 

'  I  won't' 

'  If  you  do  she'll  trick  you  somehow,  sir.  She'll  get  away  to 
those  clubs.     She  means  to.     That's  why  she's  going.' 

Felix's  face  grew  hard. 

'  Give  me  the  address  of  that  doctor,  of  Barreille,'  he  said. 

When  Alice  had  gone  he  sat  down  to  think.  Again  he  looked 
into  the  void  and  saw  nothing  but  darkness.  He  thought  of 
Mr.  Ismey  and  what  Alice  had  said  of  him,  that  his  wife  was 
breaking  his  heart.     He  loved  her  then,  he  loved  her  too.     But 


FELIX  407 

had  he  not  abandoned  her  ?  Alice  said  that  he  would  come 
back,  that  he  would  not  give  in,  that  he  would  fight  the  curse  of 
his  life  and  Mrs.  Ismey's  again.  Yes,  Alice  said  so.  But  was 
it  true  ?  Besides,  Mrs.  Ismey  hated  him  now.  He  had  no 
influence  with  her.  She  hated  him  more  than  she  hated  any 
other  human  being.     And  why  ? 

When  he  came  to  that  the  darkness  of  the  abyss  seemed  to 
clear  a  little  before  Felix.  He  saw  something  that  made  him 
wish  almost  for  blindness.  He  shut  his  eyes.  He  turned  away. 
He  would  not  see. 

It  was  arranged  that  he  should  go  with  Mrs.  Ismey  to  Paris 
on  Friday  night.  They  were  to  meet  at  Victoria  Station  half 
an  hour  before  the  train  started.  Felix  had  wired  to  Barreille 
to  make  an  appointment,  and  had  received  a  reply.  Mrs. 
Ismey  did  not  know  this.  Felix  understood  now  that  it  was 
necessary  to  fight  her  with  her  own  weapons.  He  could  no 
longer  dare  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  her.  She  had  received 
his  refusal  of  the  money  calmly,  even  sweetly. 

'  It  was  only  that  I  didn't  want  to  bother  you  for  trifles,'  she 
had  said.  'And — and  it  seems  so  preposterous  that  I  should 
have  nothing,  when  my  husband  is  a  rich  man.' 

'Yes,  I  know.  But  it  will  be  all  right.  I  '11  see  to  everything 
for  you,'  Felix  answered. 

'You  're  always  so  good  to  me,'  she  said. 

She  tried  to  force  her  rigid  face  into  a  smile,  but  her  eyes 
looked  malignant. 

That  was  on  Thursday,  the  last  time  he  was  to  see  her  before 
they  met  at  the  station. 

On  Thursday  night  he  scarcely  slept  at  all.  He  wns  naturally 
excitable,  and  events  now  made  for  excitement  in  his  life.  As 
he  lay  there  in  the  dark,  hearing  Chicho's  regular  breathing,  he 
remembered  his  many  thoughts  of  Paris.  Not  London,  but 
Paris,  had  been  the  first  city  of  his  dreams.  Of  Paris  he  had 
first  heard  the  stories  that  set  his  brain  on  fire,  and  his  heart 
longing  for  a  greater  life  than  he  had  ever  known.  The  lamps 
of  Paris  had  first  gleamed  across  his  imagination,  the  voices  of 
Paris  had  first  murmured  in  his  ears.  That  evening— that  first 
evening,  he  called  it — when,  in  the  hut  in  the  forest,  he  heard  the 
huge  and  flowing  tides  of  life,  they  rolled  upon  the  Paris  streets. 

Now  he  was  going  there.  But  how  ?  Strange  would  be  his 
pilgrimage,  far  stranger  than  the  tailor's.  He  would  not  starve, 
it  was  true.  His  body  would  not  starve.  How  would  he 
return  ?  He  dared  not  look  forward.  Yet  he  was  resolute. 
One  thing  above  all  others  now  gave  fibre  to  his  resolution,  the 


408  FELIX 

knowledge  that  Mrs.  Ismey  hated  her  husband  because  he  had 
fought  against  her  passion.  He,  FeHx,  was  about  to  do  the  same 
thing.  He  might  earn  the  same  reward.  He  risked  so  much 
that  the  face  of  Mr.  Ismey  did  not  rise  up  out  of  the  void  to 
look  upon  him  and  to  reproach  him.  The  fact  that  in  going  he 
threw  the  dice  for  his  happiness  or  misery  gave  him  the  sense 
that  he  was  doing  right.  She  had  to  be  saved.  Who  would  dare 
to  say  that  he  had  no  mission  to  save  her? 

He  fell  asleep  towards  morning. 

On  Friday  he  was  terribly  restless.  He  could  not  be  still. 
When  he  had  packed  he  did  not  know  what  to  do,  how  to  pass 
the  hours.  At  length  he  resolved  to  go  down  to  the  school,  to 
force  himself  to  work.  He  had  been  neglecting  Sam  lately,  but 
Sam  did  not  mind.  When  he  did  present  himself  Felix  was 
always  greeted  with  the  same  sweet  smile,  the  same  purring 
welcome.  Probably  Sam  thought  him  a  'damned  fool'  But 
then  he  thought  that  of  so  many  people.  He  was  a  believer  in 
Carlyle.  Felix  carried  out  his  resolve.  He  went  to  Eldridge 
Buildings,  chaffed  and  laughed  with  Arliss  and  the  other  pupils, 
wrote  part  of  an  article,  and  had  an  interview  with  Sam  at  the 
end  of  the  afternoon. 

*  I  shan't  be  here,  sir,  for  a  few  days,'  he  said,  when  he  was 
going. 

Sam  smiled  indulgently. 

'You  are  about  to  take  a  little  holiday,  Mr.  Wilding?  Well, 
why  not  ?    A  holiday  clears  the  mind,  restores  the  tired  intellect.' 

Felix  reddened  ;  the  sarcasm  was  sufficiently  apparent,  though 
very  soft  and  sweet. 

'  Where  are  you  going  ?     Scotland  ?  Morocco  ?  Germany  ? ' 

He  waved  his  white  hand  as  if  to  indicate  the  globe. 

•To  Paris,  sir.' 

'Paris.  A  very  informing  place.  I  know  Paris  inside  out. 
Every  journalist  ought  to.  You  are  very  wise  to  go  ther  e. 
Paris  widens  the  horizon.  Paris — I  might  almost  say — compl  etes 
the  education.  Paris  and  a  woman — what  more  can  you  want 
to  put  the  finishing  touch  on  mind  and  h-eart ! ' 

The  words  seemed  ominous  to  Felix;  he  hardly  knew  why. 
When  he  left  Sam's  school  he  did  not  go  back  at  once  to  his 
flat.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  be  shut  up  in  his  little 
room.  So  he  went  to  the  Club,  stayed  there  some  time,  and 
then  walked  to  Victoria  Street  across  the  Park.  When  he 
reached  Wellington  Mansions  it  was  half-past  five.  He  meant 
to  be  at  Victoria  at  half-past  seven.  He  had  still  two  hours,  but 
he  had  to  dine.     That  would  take  up  some  time. 


FELIX  409 

'There's  a  note  in  your  room,  sir,  marked  "Urgent,"*  said  the 
lift  man  as  Felix  was  going  up. 

Felix  guessed  at  once  it  was  from  Mrs.  Ismey,  Perhaps  she 
was  not  going.  Perhaps  Mr.  Ismey  had  returned  home  unex- 
pectedly. 

'  When  did  it  come  ? '  he  asked. 

'  It  must  be  a  good  hour  and  a  half  ago,  I  should  say,  sir,' 
replied  the  man,  opening  the  iron  door  to  let  Felix  out. 

'  Chicho  all  right  ? '  he  asked,  as  he  put  the  key  into  his  door. 

'Yes,  sir;  seems  settling  down  nicely.' 

•That's  good.' 

Felix  had  given  the  little  dog  to  the  porter  to  be  taken  care  of 
during  his  absence  in  Paris.  He  shut  the  door  and  hurried  into 
his  sitting-room.  The  note  lay  on  the  table.  He  picked  it  up 
eagerly  and  looked  at  the  handwriting.  It  was  his  mother's. 
His  mother's !  The  envelope  was  unstamped.  He  examined 
it.  It  had  not  been  through  the  post.  She  was  in  London, 
then.     His  mother  in   London  again  !     And  why  should  she 

write?    Why  should  she  not  come  if  she He  tore  the 

envelope  open. 

•5B  Henrietta  Street,  Cavendish  Square. 
'  Friday,  3  P.M. 

'  My  dearest  Boy, — I  am  in  London,  here.  You  will  be 
surprised,  I  know.  I  wish  very  much  to  see  you  at  once.  Can 
you  come  ?  I  know  you  will  when  I  beg  you  to.  We  might 
have — (here  two  words  were  very  carefully  and  completely 
erased) — tea  together.  Come  at  once  if  possible.  I  might  not 
be  able  to  see  you  late.  Please  try  to. — With  fondest  love. 
Ever  your  loving  Mother.' 

Felix  stood  with  this  note  in  his  hand.  He  read  it  two  or  three 
times.  What  did  it  mean  ?  His  mother  was  staying  in  London 
then,  staying — but  she  hated  London.  She  never  stayed  in 
London.  And  how  odd  her  coming  away  from  home  now  that 
Margot  needed  her  so  much  !  '51?  Henrietta  Street,  Cavendish 
Square.'  Was  it  a  hotel?  Was  she  with  friends  ?  Cavendish 
Square  !  That  suggested  doctors.  Could  Margot  be  ill?  Could 
his  mother  have  brought  her  up  ?  15ut,  if  so,  would  she  not  have 
told  him  that  Margot  was  with  her  ?  He  could  not  make  it  out  at 
all.  He  looked  at  the  clock.  Twenty  minutes  to  six.  He  must 
go  at  once,  of  course.  He  had  not  so  very  much  time.  Only 
an  tiour  and  fifty  minutes  before  he  had  to  meet  Mrs.  Ismey  at 
Victoria  Station.  He  wished  his  mother  had  not  chosen  to-day 
for  coming  up.     Well,  he  would  keep  his  eye  on  the  time. 


410  FELIX 

He  went  out,  hailed  a  hansom,  and  told  the  man  to  drive  to 
5B  Henrietta  Street.  There  was  a  scud  of  rain  coming  on, 
and  the  sky  was  dark.  When  he  reached  Hyde  Park  Corner 
carriages  were  pouring  out  of  the  Park.  The  hoods  of  the 
victorias  were  up,  for  the  first  drops  began  to  fall.  It  was  cold, 
too,  for  May.  Felix  thought  of  Mrs.  Ismey,  then  of  his  mother. 
He  could  not  imagine  her  spending  a  night  in  London,  and  all 
by  herself.  Surely  Margot  must  be  with  her.  Well,  he  would 
»oon  know.  Here  was  Cavendish  Square.  He  saw  a  bath-chair 
go  by  on  the  pavement.  A  woman  dressed  in  a  nurse's  costume 
walked  beside  it  holding  up  an  umbrella.  The  thin,  drawn  face 
of  a  young  man  looked  out  from  under  the  hood  of  the  chair. 
Felix  saw  his  eyes.  They  had  a  dazed  and  wondering  expres- 
sion in  them.  Felix  thought  they  were  like  the  eyes  of  a 
little,  young  dog  that  has  been  cruelly  treated,  but  is  at  last 
beginning  to  know  what  kindness  means.  Here  was  the 
corner  of  Henrietta  Street.  The  cabman  drove  a  little  way 
down  the  street,  and  drew  up  before  the  door  of  a  good-sized 
house.     Felix  jumped  out,  paid,  and  rang  the  bell. 

Now  that  he  was  standing  before  the  door  he  was  more 
amazed,  more  curious  than  ever.  It  seemed  impossible  that  his 
mother  was  really  here,  in  this  grey  street,  behind  this  dark- 
green  wood  and  ground  glass  painted  deep  red  and  blue.  He 
glanced  at  his  watch,  and  thought  of  the  station  and  Mrs.  Ismey 
meeting  him  there.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  tall  woman  in  a 
black  dress,  with  a  white  apron,  and  an  oddly  shaped  white  cap 
tied  under  the  chin  with  white  strings. 

•  Is  Mrs.  Wilding  here?'  asked  Felix. 

•  Yes,'  said  the  woman.    '  Will  you  please  give  me  your  name? ' 

•  Felix  Wilding.' 

The  woman  smiled  slightly,  as  if  she  felt  a  sort  of  kindly 
pleasure  on  hearing  the  name. 

'  Oh  yes,'  she  said.  '  You  're  a  little  late,  but  will  you  come 
upstairs  ? ' 

She  turned  round.  Felix  followed  her  wondering.  What 
was  she  ?  A  servant  ?  She  did  not  speak  like  a  servant. 
There  was  something  almost  authoritative  in  her  manner. 
They  went  up  to  the  first  floor.  On  the  landing  the  woman 
turned  round. 

'  One  more  flight,'  she  said. 

And  again  she  smiled  with  a  sort  of  gentle,  a  sort  of  reassuring 
kindness. 

They  reached  the  second  landing,  and  she  knocked  upon  a 
door.     Felix  heard  a  voice  say,  '  Come  in.*     It  was  his  mother's 


FELIX  411 

voice.  The  woman  put  in  her  head  and  said  something.  Felix 
could  not  hear  what  it  was.  Then  she  drew  back  and  said  to 
him  : 

'  You  can  go  in  now.' 

As  he  passed  her  she  looked  at  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  meaning— of  kind,  even  of 
tender  meaning,  in  her  eyes.  He  walked  into  the  room, 
and  she  shut  the  door  behind  him  quietly.  He  found 
himself  in  a  good-sized,  comfortably,  but  plainly  furnished 
bedroom.  The  curtains  were  already  drawn,  and  it  was  lit  with 
electric  light  from  one  burner.  On  a  large  bed  his  mother  was 
lying  outside  the  counterpane,  fully  dressed.  She  had  a  little 
Bible,  that  he  knew  well,  open  in  her  hand.  But  she  was  not 
reading.  She  was  lying  turned  on  her  side,  gazing  eagerly 
towards  him  as  he  came  in,  and  raising  herself  up  on  her  elbow. 
She  looked  just  as  usual,  less  pale  than  when  she  had  come  to 
tea  at  Wellington  Mansions. 

'Mater!'  he  said,  coming  up  to  the  bed.  'Why,  what  on 
earth  are  you  doing  here  ?  ' 

He  bent  down.  His  mother  stretched  up  to  him  and  kissed 
him. 

'Oh,  I  am  so  thankful  you  have  come  ! '  she  said  in  a  broken 
voice.  'It  was  getting  so  late  that  I  almost  thought — I  was 
almost  afraid  you  had  gone  away.     And  if  you  had ' 

She  stopped  sp'^aking. 

'No,  but  I  was  out.  I  started  directly  I  had  your  note. 
But  what 's  the  matter  ?     Is  Margot  here  ? ' 

He  was  not  surprised  to  see  his  mother  lying  down.  She 
often  did  that. 

'No.' 

'Well,  but  then ' 

*  There 's  an  armchair,'  his  mother  said.  '  Quite  a  comfortable 
one.  Sit  down  in  it.  They  will  bring  tea  in  a  moment,  but  I 
want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  first.' 

She  had  looked  almost  as  if  she  were  going  to  shed  tears, 
but  now  she  was  smiling  gently. 

'  I  don't  know  that  I  want  tea,'  Felix  said. 

He  spoke  stiffly.  It  had  sud'Ienly  occurred  to  him  that 
perhaps  his  mother  had  come  up  with  the  intention  of  prevent- 
ing him  from  going  to  Paris.  She  might  have  tliought  it  over 
when  she  was  alone  in  the  country  and  resolved  to  act  firmly. 
Suddenly  he  felt  sure  it  was  so.  She  hated  London.  What 
else  should  bring  her? 

'I  haven't   very  much   time   either,'  he   added,    under   the 


412  FELIX 

influence  of  this  new  and  disagreeable  idea.  'It  s  a  pity  you 
happened  to  come  up  to-day  because  I  'm  going  to  Paris  to-night 
by  the  boat  train.' 

He  stopped.  His  mother  said  nothing.  A  very  sHght 
tremor  went  over  her  face,  upward  from  lips  to  eves. 

'  But  why  are  you  here,  mater?  '  he  added.  '  Why  aren't  you 
staying  in  a  hotel  ?' 

'  Felix,'  she  said,  speaking  very  quietly  in  a  low  voice,  '  I 
haven't  been  feeling  very  well  lately,  not  for  some  time.' 

'  Haven't  you?'  he  said. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  armchair  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  He 
pulled  the  chair  a  little  nearer  without  knowing  that  he  did  so. 
Often  he  began  to  lecture  his  mother  upon  the  danger  of 
becoming  hypochondriacal  when  she  spoke  of  her  health.  To- 
night something  prevented  him  from  doing  that. 

*  Haven't  you,  mater  ? '  he  repeated. 
His  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  face. 

'  No.  I  didn't  know  quite  what  it  was.  I  had  a  symptom — 
it  rather  troubled  me.  So  I  called  in  Doctor  Manton  and  told 
him  about  it,  and  he  advised  me  to  come  up  and  consult  a 
specialist,  Doctor  Egerton  Smith,  in  Harley  Street.' 

'  Is  that  why  you  're  here  ?     When  are  you  going  to  see  him  ? ' 

*  I  went  to  see  him  the  other  day  before  I  came  to  tea  with  you.' 
'What  did  he  say?' 

Felix  spoke  quickly  and  leaned  forward  in  the  chair. 
'  Felix,  dear,  he  examined  me,  and  he  said  he  could  do  nothing 
for  me.' 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  Felix  said  : 

*Do  nothing — but — mater,  what  did  he  mean?' 

*  He  thought  the — what  I  suffered  from — had  been  allowed  to 
go  too  far.  I  asked  him  if  nothing  could  be  done.  You  see,  it 
was  all  so  sudden — I  could  hardly  believe  that — well,  he  said 
he  could  do  nothing  at  all.     And  so  I  came  away.' 

Felix  felt  that  he  had  turned  absolutely  white.  He  felt  that 
his  lips  were  white.     He  did  not  try  to  say  anything. 

'After  I  had  had  tea  with  you  I  went  home  with  Stephen.  I 
told  him  in  the  train  what  Doctor  Egerton  Smith  had  said. 
Stephen  thought  I  ought  to  take  a  second  opinion.  But  I  did 
not  want  to.  I  felt  sure  from  what  the  doctor  had  told  me  that 
it  would  be  no  use,  that  nothing  could  be  done.  However, 
Doctor  Manton  agreed  with  Stephen.  He  insisted  on  bringing 
me  up  to-day  to  see  Doctor  Henry  Wyles.  I  saw  him  this 
morning  at  twelve.  He  kept  me  a  long  time,  and  then  sent  for 
a  very  famous  young  surgeon,  Mr.  HilL* 


FELIX  413 

*  A  surgeon  ! '  Felix  whispered.     '  Mater  ? ' 

'They  had  a  consultation,  and  decided  that  it  was  perhaps 
possible  to  save  my — to  do  something  for  me — if  it  was  done  at 
once.  For  a  moment  I  refused.  You  know  I  am  rather  a 
coward.  I  felt  as  if  I  would  rather — I  mean,  I  hardly  felt  as  if 
I  could  go  through  it.     But  then  I  thought  I  ought  to  for — well, 

you  see,  there  is  Margot,  and '     She  broke  off  and  looked 

iilently  at  Felix. 

He  did  not  say  a  word. 

'  So  I  decided  that  I  would  have  it  done.  This  house  belongs 
to  Doctor  Wyles,  and — and  they  will  do  it  here  to-morrow 
morning  at  nine.  That  is  why  I  asked  you  to  come.  I  wanted 
to ' 

She  stopped  speaking.  The  tremor  went  over  her  face  again. 
There  was  a  dead  silence.  Before  either  of  them  broke  it  a  tap 
came  at  the  door.  Felix  sprang  up.  He  walked  across  the 
room  away  from  the  door  and  came  to  the  drawn  curtains.  He 
heard  the  door  opening,  and  the  rustle  of  a  dress  and  the  clatter 
of  china.  He  pulled  the  curtains  violently  apart,  pushed  aside 
the  blind,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

He  saw  nothing. 

Presently — it  might  have  been  after  years — he  heard  his 
mother  saying : 

'  Felix  ! ' 

He  did  not  turn  round.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  tried  to 
and  failei. 

'Felix,  dear.' 

He  tried  again  and  succeeded.  He  saw  a  tea-table  standing 
between  the  empty  armchair  and  the  bed,  on  which  his  mother 
was  still  Ijing,  and  he  went  towards  it  and  her.  As  he  went  he 
was  moving  his  lips  and  attempting  to  say  something.  When 
he  reacheo  the  side  of  the  bed,  so  that  he  was  touching  it,  he 
stood  still  and  looked  down  on  his  mother.  She  tried  to  raise 
herself  towards  him  and  held  up  one  arm,  supporting  herself  on 
the  other.  Her  expression  was  an  embrace.  He  took  no 
notice,  and  she  dropped  her  arm  and  sank  back  on  the  bed. 
As  she  did  taat  he  saw  the  lift  at  Wellington  Mansions  descend- 
ing with  her.  He  saw  her  being  carried  away,  out  of  his  sight. 
Suddenly  he  threw  himself  down  on  her  violently. 

'  Mater  !  nater  ! '  he  cried  out.     '  Mater  ! ' 

He  caught  hold  of  her  and  shut  his  eyes,  pressing  his  face 
hard  against  her  breast. 

'  Mater  1 '  he  said.     '  Mother  ! ' 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

AT  a  few  minutes  after  seven  o'clock  that  evening  Fel'x 
came  out  of  the  bedroom  in  Henrietta  Street  and  began 
slowly  to  descend  the  stairs.  When  he  reached  the  first  land- 
ing he  had  to  pass  an  open  door.  He  turned  his  head  away 
from  it  and  quickened  his  steps,  but  a  woman  rustled  out, 
looked  over  the  balusters  after  him,  and  then  called,  in  alow 
but  distinct  voice,  '  Mr.  Wilding  ! '  Felix  went  on  tiK  she 
called  again,  and  then  stopped  on  the  stairs  but  did  not  turn 
round  to  see  her.  It  was  the  nurse  who  had  let  him  in,  and  who 
was  the  matron  of  the  nursing-home  in  which  his  mother  was. 
She  came  quickly  downstairs  till  she  reached  him.  Then  he 
half  turned,  but  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Wilding,'  she  said,  '  I  only  wanted  to  say  a  word. 
You're  coming  to-morrow,  are  not  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  he  said. 

'  I'm  glad  of  that.  To  feel  you  are  in  the  house  will  cheer 
your  mother  up.     She  was  longing  for  that.' 

'  I'm  coming,'  he  said. 

'  Do  you  think  you  could  manage  to  come  by  a  quarter  or 
twenty  minutes  to  nine,  so  that  I  should  have  time  :o  let  her 
know  you  are  actually  here  before  it  begins  ? ' 

'  I'll  come  at  half-past  eight.' 

*  Thank  you.' 

The  nurse  paused  a  moment.  Felix  knew  she  was  looking 
at  him  with  gentle  kindness  and  sympathy. 

'  Don't  be  too  much  upset,  if  you  can  help  it,*  she  said  at 
last.  '  Dr.  Wyles  says  there  is  a  real  chance  foi  her.  And 
she's  so  brave.  I've  been  telling  her  all  about  it  this  after- 
noon. I  couldn't  do  that  to  some  people.  But  she  wished  to 
know.  I've  never  had  any  one  so  brave  in  the  home  all 
the  time  I've  been  here.' 

Felix  nodded.  He  went  down  a  step  or  two,  while  the  ma- 
tron stood  looking  pityingly  after  him.    Then  he  turned  round. 

'  D'you  know  that  I've  called  my  mother  a  coward  ? '  he  said. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Wilding  ! '  said  the  matron,  startled. 

414 


FELIX  415 

*  Yes,  often.' 

*  That  was  before  you  knew  what  your  mother  was  ? '  said 
the  matron  gently. 

*  Yes,'  he  answered.     *  Before  I  knew.' 

'We'll  look  for  you  at  half-past  eight  to-morrow.  Don't 
be  downcast.' 

*  Good  night,'  he  said. 

In  a  moment  she  heard  the  hall  door  shut  on  him. 

When  he  was  in  the  street  he  stood  still.  He  knew  he  had 
to  go  to  Victoria  to  meet  Mrs.  Ismey  and  tell  her  that  they 
could  not  go  to  Paris.  He  knew  also  that  he  had  not  much 
time.  It  was  past  seven  already.  Yet  he  waited.  He  did 
not  feel  as  if  he  could  go  away  from  this  house,  leaving  his 
mother  there  alone,  lying  on  that  bed  waiting  for  the  night 
— and  the  morning.  She  had  always  disliked  London  so 
much.  Just  then  that  thought  made  everything  seem  more 
terrible.  If  only  it  could  have  been  at  Hill  House.  If  she 
could  have  been  in  her  own  room,  with  the  garden  outside, 
her  own  servants  about  her,  Margot  not  far  off.  He  looked 
up  at  the  house  to  the  second-floor  windows  and  put  up  his 
hand  to  his  face.     It  was  icy  cold. 

An  empty  hansom  came  slowly  down  the  street.  He  made 
a  gesture  to  catch  the  cabman's  attention  and  got  in. 

'  Go  to  looB  Green  Street,  Park  Lane,'  he  said,  'As  quick 
as  you  can.' 

It  was  just  possible  that  Mrs.  Ismey  might  not  have 
started,  that  he  might  be  able  to  stop  her.  He  hoped  so,  as 
much  as  he  could  hope  anything.  The  idea  of  a  great  rail- 
way-station, lit  up,  was  frightful  to  him.  People  would  be 
able  to  see  his  face  there.  The  cabman  drove  on  as  fast  as 
the  traffic  would  let  him.  Felix  leaned  back  in  a  corner  of 
the  cab,  stiffening  his  body  and  stretching  out  his  legs.  He 
knew  that  it  was  very  likely  that  he  had  seen  his  mother 
alive  for  the  last  time.  And  not  two  hours  ago  he  had  not 
known  that  she  was  ill.  Not  two  hours  ago  he  had  been  the 
son  who  was  always  ready  to  laugh  at  her  ailments  and 
sneer  at  her  as  a  coward. 

He  shut  his  eyes.  He  saw  her  lying  outside  the  bed  in 
Henrietta  Street,  turned  toward  the  door  so  that  she  might 
see  him  coming  in.  Then  he  saw  her  in  his  flat,  standing 
up  and  hastily  finishing  her  cup  of  tea,  because  he  had  let 
her  see  that  her  company  was  irksome  to  him,  and  that  he 
wished  to  get  rid  of  her  when  she  came  to  him  after  receiv- 
ing her  death  warrant  from  Dr.  Egerton  Smith. 


416  FELIX 

When  he  thought  of  that  he  did  not  wonder  that  his  eyes 
were  incapable  of  shedding  any  more  tears.  But  he  did 
wonder  that  the  pulse  of  his  heart  could  go  on  beating 
regularly. 

He  remembered  many  other  things  too  ;  almost  every  oc- 
casion, he  thought,  when  he  had  been  unkind  to  his  mother, 
when  he  had  trampled  upon  her  unfailing  love,  when  he  had 
faintly  jeered  at  her  always  humble  advice,  and  had  shrunk 
from  her  anxious  tenderness. 

How  had  he  been  able  to  do  it  ?  What  a  mystery  that  was 
to  him  now.  For  he  knew  how  intensely  he  had  really  been 
loving  her  all  the  time  :  all  the  time  that  he  seemed  to  be 
ignoring  her,  forgetting  her,  pushing  her  out  of  his  life, 
denying  her  access  to  his  mind,  refusing  almost  brutally  the 
soft  advances  of  her  influence.  Yes,  all  the  time  he  had 
been  loving  her  intensely.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  at  the 
other  side  of  the  world  from  himself,  loving  her. 

And  now,  perhaps,  it  was  all  over.  He  had  just  said 
good-bye  to  her  without  speech,  kneeling  at  the  side  of  the 
bed.  He  had  held  the  body  that  was  to  be  lacerated  in  a 
few  hours,  lacerated  by  men  whom  he  had  never  seen.  He 
had  felt  its  life,  perhaps,  probably,  for  the  last  time.  He  had 
received,  perhaps,  the  final  kiss  of  his  mother's  soul.  At  this 
time  to-morrow  night  it  was  most  likely  that  people  would 
be  coming  to  him  for  directions  about  her  burial. 

'  But  she  knows  now,'  he  said  to  himself.  '  She  knows 
about  me  now.' 

He  kept  on  repeating  that  to  himself  mechanically,  and 
trying  to  gain  a  little  comfort  from  it.  He  had  forgotten 
why  he  was  driving  and  where,  forgotten  what  he  had  to  go 
through  before  he  could  shut  himself  up  and  be  alone. 

'  Isn't  this  it,  sir  ?' 

'  Isn't  this  the  house,  sir  ? ' 

'  Oh — what — are  we ? ' 

He  stumbled  out  of  the  cab,  and  was  just  going  to  ring 
the  bell  of  Mrs.  Ismey's  house  when  the  hall  door  was 
opened  by  Alice. 

'  Alice  !  '  he  said. 

'I  saw  you  out  of  the  window,  sir,'  she  said,  'and — but 
whatever's  the  matter  ? ' 

*  Has  Mrs.  Ismey  gone  yet  ? ' 

'  Sir,  what  is  it  ?  Oh,  sir,  has  anything  happened  to  my 
lady  ? ' 


FELIX  417 

She  caught  hold  of  his  arm.  Felix  took  her  hand  away 
gently, 

'No.  I  haven't  seen  her.  Then  she  has  gone  to  the 
station  ? ' 

*  Yes,  sir.' 

He  began  to  turn  away,  but  the  maid  stopped  him. 
'Sir,'  she  said,  *  Mr.  Ismey  is  coming  back  to-night.     We 
don't  know  what  time,  but  he's  coming.* 
Felix  stood  still. 

*  To-night  !' 

*  Yes,  sir.' 

*  Does  she  know  it  ? ' 

*  Yes,  sir.  She's  in  an  awful  state  to  get  away.  She  knows 
what  he'll  do  when  he  does  come.' 

'Alice,'  Felix  said,  '  Mrs.  Ismey  won't  go  to  Paris  to-night. 
I'm  not  able  to  take  her.' 

The  maid  looked  surprised  and  anxious. 

'You  can't  go,  sir  ?' 

*No.' 

'But  then — oh,  sir,  you'll  have  a  fearful  trouble  with  her 
when  she  finds  out.  You'll  never  get  her  to  come  back  here 
now  Mr.  Ismey's  coming  home.  She's  mad  to  be  away  from 
him.* 

*  I  can't  take  her  to  Paris.' 

He  stood  there  on  the  step,  and  Alice  stood  in  the  doorway 
looking  at  him  with  her  small,  steady  eyes,  which  were  alight 
with  curiosity. 

'  Fm  afraid  something  dreadful's  happened,  sir,'  she  mur- 
mured.    '  You  do  look  bad.' 

'I'll  bring  her  back,  Alice.     I  promise  that,'  he  replied. 

He  crossed  the  pavement  and  got  into  the  cab. 

'  Go  to  Victoria,'  he  said  to  the  man.  '  London,  Chatham, 
and  Dover  station.' 

The  man  drove  off.  Alice  stood  watching  the  cab  disap- 
pearing down  the  street.  When  it  was  out  of  sight  she  shook 
her  head,  sighed,  and  went  into  the  house  slowly. 

Felix  gave  himself  up  once  more  to  those  visions  which 
broke  upon  the  twilight  and  faded  away—visions  of  his  mother 
and  of  himself,  as  they  had  been  together. 

One  came  now  that  had  not  come  before.  He  saw  her 
knocking  at  hisbedroom  door  in  the  night  at  Churston  Waters, 
the  night  of  that  Sunday  on  which  Mrs.  Ismey's  telegram  had 
arrived.  She  could  not  sleep  because  he  had  parted  from  her 
in  anger.      He  was  awake  in  his  bedroom.     Tic  heard    her 


418  FELIX 

knock  and  held  his  breath  and  did  not  answer.  Now  he  saw 
her  cross  the  landing  slowly  and  go  into  her  room.  When 
she  was  there  he  saw  her  praying — for  him. 

He  did  not  dare  to  pray  for  her.  All  the  angels  were  surely 
doing  that  to-night. 

The  cab  drew  up  at  Victoria  Station.  A  porter  detached 
himself  from  the  line  of  waiting  men  and  came  forward. 

*  Any  luggage,  sir?' 

Felix  shook  his  head.  When  he  had  paid  the  cabman  he 
walked  into  the  station.  First  he  went  to  the  Continental 
booking-office.  There  were  several  travellers  waiting  their 
turns  by  the  wooden  barrier.  Others  were  sitting  on  benches 
against  the  wall,  looking  watchful  and  vexed.  But  Mrs.  Ismey 
was  not  among  them,  and  he  made  his  way  out  on  to  the  plat- 
form. There  was  a  glare  of  light  from  the  long  bookstall. 
Smoke  rose  from  the  engines  drawn  up  under  the  domed  roof. 
One  whistled  piercingly.  Felix  thought  it  was  like  a  person 
screaming,  or  an  animal  under  the  knife.  It  began  to  let  off 
steam  with  a  fierce,  hissing  noise.  The  jets  of  white  vapour 
gushed  out  from  the  painted  iron,  obscuring  the  air.  Felix 
felt  dazed.  He  thought  he  was  looking  about  for  Mrs.  Ismey, 
but  in  reality  he  was  standing  still  and  staring  vacantly  before 
him,  lit  up  by  the  burners  on  the  bookstall.  When  a  hand 
touched  him  he  started  violently  and  turned,  expecting  to 
see  Mrs.  Ismey. 

'  Stephen  !  '  he  said.  f 

It  was  his  brother-in-law,  who  had  come  up,  as  he  knew  from 
his  mother,  with  her  and  Doctor  Manton,  and  who  was  now 
going  back  to  Frankton  Wells  to  be  with  Margot,  whose  con- 
finement was  expected  immediately.  In  their  last  interview — 
perhaps  their  last  on  earth — his  mother  had  told  him  of  Ste- 
phen's great  and  delicate  tenderness  to  her  in  these  days  of 
agony.  He  had  been  the  only  relation  to  whom  she  had  told 
the  truth.  For  she  feared  to  reveal  it  to  Margot  in  her  pres- 
ent condition.  But  for  Stephen,  Felix  knew  that  his  mother 
would  have  been  utterly  alone  that  night  with  her  tragedy, 
that  night  when  he — her  son — had  almost  pushed  her  out  to 
face  approaching  death  amid  the  bustle  and  the  roar  of  a  city 
full  of  strangers.  He  had  not  known.  For  how  could  she 
tell  him  ?  But  she  had  told  Stephen.  Stephen  had  been  to 
her  what  he — Felix — should  have  been,  and  was  unworthy  to 
be.  And  the  clergyman  had  entirely  put  aside  his  own  anx- 
iety about  Margot.  He  had  even  insisted  on  coming  up  to 
London  again  with  Mrs.  Wilding,  and,  when  the  new  decision 


FELIX  419 

was  taken,  had  offered  to  remain  in  London  during  the  oper- 
ation, to  stay  in  the  room  with  her  if  the  doctors  would  per- 
mit it,  and  if  his  presence  would  be  any  comfort  to  her. 
'  Margot  would  wish  it  if  she  knew,'  he  had  said. 

All  this  Felix  was  aware  of,  and  thought  of  with  bitter 
shame,  as  he  looked  at  Stephen's  grave,  brick-red  face,  over 
which  his  black  hat,  pulled  down  to  his  eyebrows,  cast  a 
shade. 

'  What,  Felix  !  '  said  his  brother-in-law,  grasping  him  by  the 
hand.  '  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here.  I  have  been  having  some 
food  in  the  restaurant,  and  am  going  to  the  other  station. 
Are  you  looking  for  me  ?  Did  she  tell  you — did  the  mother 
tell  you  I  should  be  here  ?     You  have  seen  her  ? ' 

'Yes.     I  didn't  know.     But — I'm  glad,  Stephen.' 

He  wrung  Stephen's  hand. 

'  Isn't  she  brave  ? '  Stephen  said. 

Felix  felt  his  lips  beginning  to  quiver.  He  knew  he  could 
not  talk  about  it. 

'  We  must  be  like  her,'  Stephen  added  quietly.  'As  far  as 
we  can.' 

'  Stephen,'  Felix  said,  with  a  great  effort  to  be  calm,  '  I 
want  to  speak  to  you.  You've  helped  her — you've — you've 
been  all  that  I  ought  to  have  been  to  her.' 

*  No,  Felix.     She  had  not  told  you.' 
'No.' 

He  paused. 

'  She  didn't  tell  me,'  he  went  on  huskily,  '  because  she 
couldn't.  She  could  tell  you.  I've — I've  been  a  beast  to  her, 
and  you've  been  a  son.     Thank  you,  Stephen.' 

He  wrung  his  brother-in-law's  hand  again  roughly.  Ste- 
phen returned  the  grasp. 

'  Margot  doesn't  know,'  he  said.  '  We  dared  not  tell  her 
till  the  child  was  born.' 

'  I  know.     When ' 

'  It  may  be  to-morrow.' 

*  To-morrow — how  strange  !  * 

If  the  birth,  the  death,  should  be  on  the  same  day  !  He 
met  Stephen's  eyes,  and  saw  again  that  human  look  which 
had  struck  him  in  them  once  before. 

'  Will  you  send  me  a  wire  to-morrow  when  it  is  all  over, 
when  the  result  is  certain  ? '  said  Stephen, 

'  Yes,  at  once.     Oh.  Stephen,  if — if ' 

He  stopped.  He  was  beginning  to  tremble  as  he  stood 
there  among  the  hurrying  people. 


420  FELIX 

*  She  is  brave,'  Stephen  said.    *  And,  Felix,  she  is  prepared.' 
Felix  nodded. 

'  Good  night.     Thank  you,  Stephen.' 

He  watched  his  brother-in-law's  precise,  black-coated  fig- 
ure disappear  in  the  throng.  He  had  forgotten  why  he  was  at 
the  station,  but  now  that  he  was  left  alone  he  remembered, 
and  moved  away.  The  glare  from  the  bookstall  was  becom- 
ing intolerable  to  him.  He  thought  everybody  on  the  platform 
— the  porters,  the  guards,  the  newsboys,  the  anxious  passen- 
gers, must  see  in  his  face  all  that  was  passing  in  his  mind 
and  heart.  He  went  towards  the  lower  end  of  the  platform 
where  it  turns  at  right  angles  by  the  restaurant  and  the  bar. 
Possibly  Mrs.  Ismey  had  dined  at  the  station.  He  pushed  the 
swing-door  of  the  restaurant  and  went  in,  braving  the  light. 
At  the  tables  in  the  boxes  many  people  were  sitting,  eating 
with  an  air  of  preoccupation  and  hurry.  Cooks  in  white 
jackets  and  caps  were  grilling  chops  and  steaks  on  a  gridiron 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  turning  them  deftly  with  long  forks. 
A  stout  man  with  red  hair,  evidently  from  the  city,  was  sol- 
emnly examining  a  huge  haunch  of  mutton  from  which  a 
waiter  had  just  lifted  a  big  silver  cover. 

'  Looks  prime,'  he  said.     *  Much  fat,  is  there  ? ' 

*  A  very  nice  lot  of  fat,  sir  ;  very  nice  indeed,'  said  the 
waiter,  in  a  soft,  sweet  voice. 

'I'll  take  a  cut.     Give  it  me  from  here,' 

He  pointed  to  the  mutton  with  his  thumb.  His  eyes  began 
to  glisten.  Felix  turned  and  went  out.  He  could  not  see  Mrs. 
Ismey.  It  seemed  very  strange  to  him  that  all  these  people 
could  sit  down  and  eat.  Just  as  he  was  coming  out  of  the 
restaurant  a  porter  approached  him. 

'Beg  pardon,  sir/  he  said.  'Was  you  looking  for  a  lady,  a 
lady  as  is  going  to  Paris  by  the  boat  train  >' 

'Yes,'  said  Felix. 

*  I  think  it's  the  one  I've  put  in  the  train,  sir — a  lady  with  a 
thick  veil,  sir.  She's  expecting  a  gentleman  very  like  you, 
sir,  and  sent  me  to  be  on  the  look-out.' 

'  She's  in  the  train  already  ?'  said  Felix. 

'Yes,  sir.  But  her  luggage  isn't  registered,  because  you'll 
have  to  show  the  tickets.  But  I've  put  the  "  Engaged  "  on 
the  carriage,  so  nobody'll  get  in.     This  way,  sir.' 

The  man  was  very  obsequious.  He  evidently  scented  a  good 
tip,  and  was  smiling  broadly  as  he  led  the  way  to  the  platform. 
Felix  followed  him.  The  train  for  Dover  was  drawn  up  op- 
posite to  the  bookstall  and  was  filling  fast.     As  Felix  passed 


FELIX  421 

along  the  carriages  he  saw^ladies  settling  themselves  down  for 
the  journey  with  rugs,  newspapers,  and  books  ;  men  lighting 
cigars  or  standing  up  to  put  their  hats  in  the  racks  and  pul- 
ling travelling-caps  down  over  their  eyes  ;  maids  handing  in 
dressing-cases  and  jewel-boxes,  thin  and  dreary-looking  valets 
ministering  to  their  masters'  wants.  A  smart  ticket-collector 
with  a  peaked  cap  was  talking  to  an  old  gentleman  who  car- 
ried a  mustard-coloured  shawl  over  his  left  arm.  A  rosy- 
cheeked  boy  wheeled  along  a  stand  on  which  small  pillows 
were  arranged.  Porters  hurried  by  pushing  trucks  piled  with 
luggage  before  them,  and  ejaculating  in  loud,  inexpressive 
voices  :  '  By  your  leave,  please  !  by  your  leave  !  '  Departure 
and  travel  seemed  hanging,  seemed  throbbing  in  the  murky 
atmosphere. 

*  This  is  the  compartment,  sir  ! ' 

The  porter  stopped  before  a  first-class  carriage,  on  the 
windows  of  which  were  pasted  placards  with  "  Engaged  " 
printed  on  them.  Behind  the  windows  the  blinds  were  drawn 
down.  A  pile  of  luggage  stood  on  the  platform  by  the  door. 
Felix  looked  in.  In  the  far  corner  facing  the  engine  was  a 
woman,  wrapped  up  in  a  long  fur  cloak  and  closely  veiled 
Her  back  was  turned  to  the  door,  and  Felix  could  not  be 
certain  that  it  was  Mrs.  Ismey's.  She  was  tapping  her  hand 
nervously  against  the  glass. 

'  Here's  the  gentleman,  ma'am  !  '  said  the  smiling  porter. 

The  woman  turned  round. 

*  Felix  !' she  said.  *  Oh,  how  late  you  are  !  I  didn't  know 
what  was  the  matter.  Have  you  taken  the  tickets  ?  We 
shall  have  to  take  one  or  two  extra,  I  suppose,  to  keep  the 
carriage.  My  luggage  is  outside  on  the  platform,  that  pile. 
Give  the  man  the  tickets,  and  let  him  register  it  and  all 
that.     Get  in  !     Get  in  ! ' 

She  spoke  in  a  rapid,  nervous  voice,  through  the  thick  veil 
which  obscured  her  features. 
He  got  into  the  carriage. 

*  Have  you  the  tickets,  sir  ? '  began  the  porter. 
'No.' 

'  Well,  but  then  for  goodness  sake  get  them  !  '  said  Mrs. 
Ismey,  still  in  the  same  quick,  impatient  voice.  *  Get  out  and 
take  them,  and  then  we  can  have  the  door  shut.  Get  out ! 
Make  haste  !  ' 

The  blind  of  the  open  door  was  drawn  down,  and  fastened 
at  the  bottom. 

'  Hush  !     Wait  a  moment  !  '  Felix  said. 


422  FELIX 

He  made  a  strong  effort  to  collect  his  mind,  sat  down  on 
the  seat  opposite  to  her,  and  leaned  forward  to  her. 

*  I've  got  something  to  tell  you,'  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  so 
that  the  porter  might  not  hear. 

'  Well,  get  the  tickets  first,  and  then  you  can  tell  me.  I 
wish  to  have  the  door  shut  at  once.' 

'  But  we  can't  go  to  Paris,'  he  said. 

'  We — what  ! '  she  cried  sharply. 

She  lifted  her  ungloved  hands  to  her  veil,  and  pushed  it 
up  sideways,  showing  three-quarters  of  her  face,  grey,  livid, 
and  twitching  as  if  with  a  fever  of  excitement. 

'  What's  that  ? ' 

She  looked  as  she  had  looked  on  the  beach  at  Eldon  Sands, 
when  she  was  searching  for  the  cigarette-case,  haggard, 
ferocious,  and  half  crazy. 

'  I  can't  go  to  Paris.  I'm  so  sorry.  It's  not  my  fault. 
Something — something  very  dreadful  has  happened.  My 
mother ' 

'Your  mother!  What  has  your  mother  to  do  with  us? 
How  can  she  prevent  our  going  ?  Your  mother  !  Why,  you 
don't  mean  to  say 


'  Hush  !     My  mother  is  very  ill  in  London- 


'  You've  promised  me,  you've  pledged  your  word, 
you've ' 

Felix  got  up,  went  to  the  carriage  door  and  shut  it  on  the 
astonished  porter.  As  the  blinds  of  the  carriage  had  all 
been  drawn,  Mrs.  Ismey  and  he  were  now  absolutely  alone 
and  unobserved  in  the  dim  light  that  gleamed  from  the  roof. 
The  long  shriek  of  an  engine  sounded  in  the  distance.  Mrs. 
Ismey  beat  her  hands  in  the  air. 

*  You've  got  to  come  ! '  she  exclaimed  excitedly.  *  You've 
promised  me,  you've  pledged  your  word,  and  I  hold  you  to  it!' 

'  Listen  to  me,'  he  said,  speaking  very  distinctly.  '  My 
mother  has  come  up  to  London  to  undergo  a  terrible  oper- 
ation. She  is  in  a  private  hospital,  and  the  operation  is 
to-morrow  morning.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  Now 
you  understand  why  I  can't  go.' 

'  You've  promised  me.  You've  brought  me  here.  I've 
been  waiting  here  an  hour.  I've  had  to  arrange  every- 
thing  ' 

She  spoke  as  if  she  had  not  heard  what  he  said,  and  with 
increasing  and  ungovernable  excitement, 

'  Do  you  understand  what  I  am  saying?'  he  said,  quietly 
but  rather  loudly. 


FELIX  423 

*I  know.  I  dare  say  your  mother  is  ill.  She  looked  ill 
the  other  day.  But  she'll  get  well.  It'll  all  come  right.  We 
aren't  doctors.  We  can't  help  her.  Go  and  get  the  tickets. 
Go  at  once.  * 

*  I  can't  go,'  he  said. 

A  flush  appeared  on  the  livid  grey  of  her  cheeks. 

'You  must  get  out,'  he  continued.  'I'm  terribly  sorry.  I 
only  knew  to-night.' 

'  I  won't  get  out  ! '  she  cried  furiously.  '  How  can  you  ask 
me  to  when  you've  brought  me  here  ?  I  will  go  to  Paris.  I 
will  go.' 

*  It's  impossible,'  said  Felix.     '  Now  come,  please.' 

At  this  moment  the  porter  opened  the  door  of  the  com- 
partment. 

'  I  beg  pardon,  sir,'  he  said,  but  if  this  luggage  is  to  be 
registered ' 

'  It  is  to  be  registered  ! '  Mrs.  Ismey  cried  out,  turning  to 
the  door.     *  Go  and  register  it  to  Paris  ! ' 

*  But  the  ticket,  ma'am ' 

Felix  began  to  grow  desperate,  but  he  still  looked  and 
seemed  calm. 

'Wait !     I'll  arrange  it,'  he  said  to  the  porter. 

'  I  can't  leave  my  mother,'  he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Ismey. 
'  You  know  it.     I — I  may  never  see  her  again.' 

'  Nonsense  !  You're  talking  rubbish.  She's  exaggerating 
just  to  keep  you  in  London.     She  hates  me,  and  she's ' 

'Be  quiet  !  '  he  said. 

His  voice  was  suddenly  fierce. 

'  Oh,  I  know  mothers  ! '  she  cried,  pushing  her  veil  higher 
up  on  her  white,  furious  face.  '  They're  always  like  that, 
always  afraid  their  sons  are  getting  into  mischief.  She's 
laughing  at  you  and  pretending ' 

He  sprang  up  and  put  his  hand  over  her  mouth. 

'  I  won't  allow  you  to  speak  of  her  !    he  said  passionately. 

She  writhed  on  the  seat,  and  threw  her  head  back  to  get 
free  from  his  hand. 

'  Give  me  the  money,  then,  give  me  the  money  !  '  she  burst 
out  frantically.     '  I'll  go  alone.' 

He  thought  of  the  reason  why  he  had  meant  to  take  her 
to  Paris,  and  a  sudden  passion  of  pity  drove  out  the  jiassion 
of  anger  that  had  been  in  his  heart  an  instant  before. 

'No,'  he  said  gently.     'You  can't  go  alone.' 

'  I  can.  I  will.  I  never  wanted  you  to  come.  You'd  only 
be  in  the  way.  1  hate  you.  (iivc  mc  the  money  !  (iive  nie 
the  money  ! ' 


434  FELIX 

Two  or  three  people  had  joined  the  porter  at  the  door  of 
the  carriage. 

'  Hush,  for  God's  sake  !     There  are  people ' 

*  Give  me  the  money  !  I  haven't  a  farthing.  Give  me  the 
money  ! ' 

She  thrust  out  her  hands  to  him  furiously, 

'Hush!     Don't!' 

He  caught  her  hands  in  his.  She  screamed  as  if  fire  had 
touched  her.     He  let  them  go. 

'  Don't  touch  me  I  Give  me  the  money  !  You  shall  !  I 
will  have  it  !     I  will,  I ' 

A  crowd  was  gathering.  A  bell  rang.  A  voice  shouted 
some  words  monotonously.  They  were  taken  up  by  another 
voice  farther  down  the  platform. 

*  Come,'  Felix  said.     '  You  must  come.* 

Now  he  felt  absolutely  calm,  rigid,  determined.  He  did 
not  care  for  the  crowd.  He  did  not  care  for  anything.  He 
meant  to  take  her  home. 

'  No,  no !  Then  I'll  go  without  the  money,  if  you're  so 
mean — if  you're  such  a ' 

He  was  standing  up.  He  took  hold  of  both  her  arms  as 
gently  as  he  could.  She  screamed  again.  The  crowd  began 
to  murmur  and  to  press  closely  round  the  door.  Some  one 
said  : 

*  Fetch  a  policeman.' 

'Come,'  Felix  said,  trying  to  lift  her  from  the  seat  by  force. 
She  struggled,  and  uttered  shriek  upon  shriek. 

*  Let  him  get  in  ! '  said  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

*  Don't  push  ! '  said  another. 

*What  does  he  want  ?'  cried  some  one. 

'Let  me  pass,  please.     I  am  her  husband.' 

It  was  Mr.  Ismey  who  spoke — clearly,  with  a  sort  of  cold 
defiance  and  pride. 

Felix  looked  round  and  saw  a  tall  figure  getting  into  the 
carriage.  Under  the  ray  of  the  lamp  he  met  the  eyes  whose 
deep  melancholy  had  once  made  him  wonder.  He  did  not 
wonder  now.  Mrs.  Ismey  saw  her  husband.  She  shrank 
back  in  the  corner  of  the  seat,  pressed  her  head  against  the 
cushion,  opened  her  white  lips  and  cursed  him. 

'  Thank  God,  you  are  here  !  '  Felix  whispered.    *  Help  me  !  * 

But  Mr.  Ismey  took  him  by  the  arm. 

*  Go  away,'  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  pitiful  sternness.  '  Go 
away.    This  is  no  matter  for  a  boy.  You  can  do  nothing  here.* 

Felix  stood  for  a  second  looking  into  his  eyes.  Then  he 
left  the  carriage  without  another  word.     He  pushed  his  way 


FELIX  425 

out  into  the  jostling,  staring  crowd.  He  did  not  see  their 
faces  or  hear  what  they  were  saying.  But,  behind  him,  he 
heard  a  woman's  screams. 

And  he  pushed  his  way  out  through  the  crowd,  using  his 
body  forcibly. 

When  he  was  beyond  the  station  he  stood  still.  He  was 
feeling  dazed  and  helpless.  The  night  was  fine  now  and 
warmer.  Stars  twinkled  in  the  clear  sky.  He  looked  up  at 
them  and  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sort  of  sob.  Then  he 
walked  on  slowly  towards  Victoria  Street.  At  first  he  did 
not  notice  anything,  but  when  he  reached  the  pavement 
opposite  to  the  Standard  Music  Hall,  the  lights  from  it  strik- 
ing on  his  eyes  woke  a  keen  recollection  in  his  mind.  He 
remembered  his  first  night  in  London,  his  walk  home  from 
the  Grosvenor  Hotel,  his  talk  with  'Happy  Hal,'  all  his 
thoughts  and  feelings,  with  a  clear  vividness  that  was  start- 
ling. Hal  had  asked  him  if  he  was  *  making  a  start '  in  Lon- 
don, and  when  he  said  yes,  had  wished  him  '  luck  with  it.' 
And  after  Felix  parted  from  Hal,  as  he  strolled  towards 
Wellington  Mansions,  he  had  thought  about  women,  about 
the  fears  of  women,  and  he  had  pitied  them  rather  contempt- 
uously. After  all,  he  had  said  to  himself,  woman  is  inferior 
to  man.     Her  timidity  alone  would  make  her  so. 

He  had  said  that. 

And  now  he  felt  as  lost,  as  helpless,  as  despairing  as  a  lit- 
tle, homeless  waif  thrown  upon  the  world  without  a  friend. 

And  to-morrow  ?  He  dared  not  look  forward  to  to-mor- 
row night.  He  dared  not  pray.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  unworthy  and  unfit  for  anything,  most  of  all  for 
prayer. 

He  felt  like  the  little  child  he  had  once  been,  who  had 
waked  in  the  night,  and  cried  out,  '  Mother  !  '  Yes,  he  was 
that  little  child.  That  same  cry  echoed  now  in  his  heart, 
in  his  soul.  She  alone  could  comfort,  protect  him,  be  strong 
for  him,  she  who  was  lying  on  that  bed  in  that  strange  house 
waiting  for  the  dawn. 

*  Mother, '  he  whispered.     '  Mother  ! ' 

All  that  night  he  lay  awake,  thinking  of  that  word  almost 
stupidly,  forming  it  with  his  lips  mechanically,  seeing  it 
before  the  shut  eyes  that  were  pressed  against  the  pillow, 
hearing  it  said  by  the  pulses  beating  in  his  body,  pulses  that 
shook  him  in  the  dark. 

She  who,  among  strangers,  was  waiting  for  perhaps  her 
last  si-nmons  f)n  earth,  and  praying  for  her  chiUlrfn,  had 
her  triumph  then  in  the  heart  that  had  striven  to  deny  her. 


CHAPTER     XXXII 

ON  the  following  morning,  as  eleven  o'clock  was  striking 
in  the  church  steeples  of  London,  one  of  the  clerks  in 
the  Vere  Street  post-office  saw  a  tall,  well-dressed  boy  come  in 
at  the  swing-door.  A  good  many  people  were  in  the  office  at 
the  moment,  and  the  boy  stood  looking  dazed  by  the  bustle 
and  noise  around  him.  There  were  two  patches  of  vivid  red 
on  his  white  face.  His  eyes  shone  feverishly,  and  he  looked 
intensely  self-conscious,  so  much  so  that  the  clerk's  atten- 
tion was  attracted  towards  him.  After  standing  still  for  a 
minute  he  came  up  to  the  counter  from  which  telegrams  are 
sent,  glanced  at  the  clerk,  looked  quickly  away,  as  if  to 
meet  human  eyes  was  intolerable  to  him,  pulled  a  form 
towards  him  and  began 'to  write. 

He  wrote  slowly.  When  he  had  finished  he  felt  in  his 
pocket  and  found  half  a  sovereign.  He  felt  again,  but 
apparently  could  not  find  any  other  coin,  for  he  put  the  half- 
sovereign  down  on  the  telegraph-form  and  pushed  it  under 
the  grille  which  divides  the  clerks  from  customers.  The 
clerk  took  the  form,  and  began  to  count  the  number  of 
words,  reading  them  as  he  did  so. 

'  Rev.  Stephen  Bosanfield,  St.  Mary's  Rectory,  Frankton 
Wells,  Kent. — It  is  over,  was  terrible,  but  doctors  say  suc- 
cessful ;  she  is  still  unconscious  ;  am  going  back  now  to  wait 
till  she  knows. — Felix. 

'  What 's  that  word,  sir  ? '  asked  the  clerk,  looking  up  with 
his  pencil  against  the  last  word. 

But  the  boy  had  disappeared. 

The  clerk  stared  at  the  half-sovereign. 

'  And  only  one-and-fourpence-halfpenny  to  pay  ! '  he  mur- 
mured.    '  Well,  I  'm  sure  ! ' 

He  picked  up  the  half-sovereign  and  smiled. 


438 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

ON  an  evening  of  August  in  that  year  Felix  arrived  in 
Tours,  He  was  alone.  He  went  to  the  Hotel  de  Bor- 
deaux, got  rid  of  the  dust  gathered  during  the  hot  journey 
from  Paris,  dined  in  the  long  and  narrow  salle  a  manger  with 
a  heterogeneous  collection  of  travellers,  mainly  French,  and 
then  strolled  out  into  the  town.  The  weather  was  superb, 
voluptuously  warm.  Thousands  of  stars  showed  themselves 
serenely  in  the  sky,  which  looked,  Felix  fancied,  unusually 
near  to  the  earth.  The  rows  of  trees  along  the  wide  avenue, 
which  stretches  down  the  hill  from  the  canal  to  the  place  of 
the  fountains,  were  heavy  with  leafage.  Beneath  them 
walked  a  merry  population,  accompanied  by  many  a  little 
dog  :  stout  fathers  and  mothers,  small  girls  with  pigtails, 
small  boys  with  close-cropped  hair  and  partially  bare  legs, 
grisettes  with  brilliant  dark  eyes,  broad  bosoms,  and  white 
caps  with  frills,  short  soldiers  smoking  cigarettes,  workmen 
with  flat  caps  and  striped  shirts,  carrying  their  coats  slung 
over  their  shoulders,  and  walking  heavily  and  loosely  in 
their  wide  trousers.  The  soft  air  was  alive  with  French 
chatter.  A  priest  went  by  in  a  long  black  soutane  and  a 
broad-leaved  black  hat.  Before  the  hotels  the  chefs  and 
their  assistants  lounged  in  tiieir  white  jackets,  with  the 
sleeves  turned  back  from  their  wrists,  enjoying  their  release 
from  the  suffocating  kitchens,  and  gossiping  gaily  about  the 
passing  women.  The  fountains  played  in  their  basins  among 
the  brilliant  flowers.  Lights  gleamed  from  the  cafds,  between 
the  painted  tubs  of  evergreens. 

Felix  did  not  stop  in  any  caf6.  He  had  an  end  in  view. 
He  turned  up  the  Rue  Nationale,  walking  more  quickly  now 
that  he  found  himself  between  tall  houses,  and  presently 
came  out  on  the  broad  space  where  the  carriages  stand,  ami 
saw  the  Loire,  the  bridge,  the  bathing  establishments,  like 
long  boxes  floating  in  the  water,  the  snakes  of  lamps 
stretched  upon  the  side  of  the  hill  beyond  the  river.  A 
bugle  rang  out  from  the  barracks.  He  stood  still  to  hear  it. 
As  he  walked,  ever  since  he  quitted  the  hotel,  he  had  been 
trying  to  do  a  difficult  thing,  to  regain  an  old  impression. 

427 


428  FELIX 

He  wished  to-night  to  renew  in  himself  the  mind  of  his 
youth  here  on  his  first  evening  in  France.  He  wanted  to 
revive  the  bygone  fragrance  of  his  dreams  which,  like  a  sub- 
tle perfume  kept  in  an  unstopped  flagon,  had  evaporated  in 
the  wide  winds  of  life.  But,  while  he  was  walking,  he  had 
failed  in  his  effort.  Succeeding  events  thronged  around 
him,  whispering  of  the  differences  they  had  sown  in  his 
nature,  whispering  of  the  plants  that  were  springing  up  and 
changing  the  face  of  it.  He  had  tried  to  recall  the  old  Felix 
and  had  been  companioned  by  the  new. 

The  voice  of  the  bugle  wrought  a  miracle,  as  music  so 
often  does.  As  he  heard  it  ring  out  in  the  starry  darkness 
he  was  conscious  of  a  resurrection,  silent  but  complete. 
The  graves  gave  up  their  dead  within  him ;  hooded  figures  of 
the  boy 's  hopes,  wonders,  longings,  determinations  stole 
forth. 

The  people  of  the  town  went  by  intent  on  their  evening 
business  or  pleasure  ;  the  women  and  the  soldiers,  the  loung- 
ing boys  and  leaping  children.  They  only  saw  a  stranger, 
an  Anglais,  standing  to  stare  at  a  fragment  of  foreign  life. 
They  did  not  see  the  yawning  graves,  the  hooded  figures 
stealing  out. 

Presently  Felix  moved.  He  walked  on  to  the  bridge  and 
leaned  over  the  parapet.  The  river  was  not  in  flood.  It  had 
been  a  dry  summer  in  Tours,  and  the  water  had  sunk  low  in 
its  bed.  But  it  still  ran  with  force  and  swiftness  between 
the  arches  of  the  bridge,  still  eddied  round  them  with  a  dull 
sucking  murmur.  And  the  fishermen  were  there,  as  of  old, 
upon  the  banks,  like  dolls  leaning  over  their  thin,  black  lines. 
Upon  the  island  the  masses  of  the  leafy  trees  towered  som- 
brely towards  the  stars.  Among  them  scattered  lights 
shone  faintly.  A  band  was  playing  in  some  hidden  place. 
Felix  heard  it  as  if  from  another  world. 

Once  more  he  was  gripped  by  the  boy's  acute  conscious- 
ness of  the  mystery  in  life,  in  the  life  of  man  and  the  life  of 
nature,  and  each  seemed  in  some  strange  way  to  reflect  or 
echo  the  other.  He  gazed  across  the  hurrying  river,  and 
felt  that  in  his  soul,  too,  there  were  dark  places  like  the 
dark  places  of  the  woods  ;  and  there  were  murmuring  waters 
and  there  were  scattered  stars.  He  looked  down.  How 
fast  the  water  flowed.  And  with  it  once  more,  many  pas- 
sions and  many  sorrows  seemed  to  flow  together,  and  to  pass 
whispering  by,  on  to  some  distant  ocean  of  which  he  had 
never  seen  the  foam  or  heard  the  wave.     Again  longing  was 


FELIX  429 

born  in  him  ;  but  it  was  more  timid  tnan  it  had  been,  more 
self-conscious,  more  wistful.  For  now  he  knew  the  measure 
of  his  impotence.  Ah,  yes,  he  knew  it.  And  the  hooded  fig- 
ures sought  their  graves.  And  the  new  Felix  stood  there 
gazing  down  on  the  dim  river. 

He  had  striven  and  failed  utterly.  His  self-conceit  of  old 
days  here  in  France  reared  itself  up  before  him  like  a  mon- 
ster in  the  night.  Yet  he  was  resolved  that  his  defeat 
should  not  render  him  weak.  He  would  strive  again,  and,  if 
it  was  to  be,  suffer  again  as  a  man.  His  wounds,  by  their 
throbbing,  should  nerve  him  for  the  fight.  Of  his  pain  he 
would  make  a  friend.  In  his  disillusion  he  would  seek  for 
the  true  courage,  the  courage  that  is  born  not  of  ignorance 
but  of  knowledge. 

He  had  left  his  mother  at  Churston  Waters.  Her  recovery 
had  been  slow  and  difficult,  but  very  happy.  She  was  feeble 
even  now.  But  she  was  at  peace.  When  Felix  said  good-by 
to  her  she  was  lying  on  the  sofa  near  the  open  window  of  the 
drawing-room.  Margot  sat  near  her.  Margot's  baby-son 
was  tucked  into  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  Chicho  lay  at  her 
feet.  And  her  white  face  was  serene,  even  though  tears 
shone  in  her  eyes  as  she  kissed  Felix  and  watched  him  go. 
They  understood  each  other  now,  and  that  was  beautiful  to 
the  mother,  more  beautiful,  perhaps,  than  Felix  could  ever 
realise. 

Mrs.  Ismey  he  had  not  seen  again.  But  he  knew  that  she 
was  in  this  very  country  of  France,  a  patient  in  a  home  for 
the  victims  of  morphia  at  Ivry-sur-Seine. 

Presently  he  left  the  river,  and  walked  back  through  the 
long,  cheerful  street  to  the  Cafe  de  I'Univers,  He  sat 
down  at  one  of  the  little  tables.  A  garfon  came,  and  he  or- 
dered something,  he  scarcely  knew  what.  He  only  wanted 
to  sit  there  quietly  and  to  think  a  little  under  the  stars.  The 
statue  of  Balzac  loomed  up  near  him  in  the  mystery  of  the 
night.  He  looked  at  it,  and  remembered  his  fancy  about 
the  face,  that  it  was  confronting  everything  in  the  world 
without  fear,  without  pity,  but  with  a  penetrating  determina- 
tion to  know  the  truth.  Then  he  thought  of  King  Marshall, 
of  Antonino  Marza.  Many  men  sought  for  truth,  but  to 
each  one  surely  truth  seemed  a  different  thing  ;  to  one  sad, 
to  another  glorious,  to  another  terrible,  to  another  merely 
sordid.  And  then  he  thought  about  the  boy  who  had  sat  in 
the  ruined  chapel  reading  La  Comniic  Iluniaine,  and  who  had 
triumphed  in  the  knowledge  that  it  brought  him.     What  can 


430  FELIX 

bring  true  knowledge  ?  He  asked  himself  that  question. 
Suffering,  love,  or  only  death  ?  Suffering,  he  thought,  can 
bring  some.  Love  can  bring  much.  And  death  ?  He  knew 
his  mother  in  that  moment  when  he  knew  that  death  stood 
beside  her.  Perhaps  death  would  tell  him  everything.  But 
he  wished  to  live,  though  he  so  wished  to  know.  For  youth 
was  in  him.  He  wished  to  live,  but  he  resolved  that  he 
would  be  like  the  Arabs,  utterly  fearless  of  death.  Is  it  not 
only  the  coming  of  the  truth  ? 

The  domino-players  left  their  tables.  The  lights  went  out 
in  the  cafes.  The  garfons  took  off  their  aprons,  and  came 
forth  transformed  into  the  night,  with  soft,  black  hats  upon 
their  heads,  and  cigars  in  their  mouths. 

And  Felix  walked  slowly  to  the  hotel.  He  thought  of 
Paul  Chalmers,  who  had  gone  back  to  his  piano-tuning,  of 
Happy  Hal,  who  was  once  more  singing  soberly  with  his  two 
voices  on  the  Dover  Harbour  Works,  persuaded  by  his  little 
wife  to  relinquish  the  dangerous  path  to  fame,  of  his  mother 
at  rest  in  her  long  bedroom  looking  over  the  garden  and  the 
churchyard,  of  Chicho  with  her. 

And  then  he  thought  of  a  woman  shut  up  from  the  world 
at  Ivry-sur-Seine. 

All  this  was  life.  And  what  did  it  mean  ?  And  to  what 
end — or  beginning — would  it  come  ? 

The  night,  forsaken  by  men  who  gave  themselves  to  sleep, 
strove  to  tell  Felix.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  every  star  were 
a  word  trembling  upon  its  lips. 

Two  days  later  he  bade  Grand'mbre  *  au  revoir  ! '  and  set 
out  from  La  Maison  des  Alouettes  into  the  forest  to  visit  the 
tailor.  He  had  written  to  tell  the  old  man  he  was  coming. 
Somehow  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  take  him  by  surprise. 
Had  things  been  different,  perhaps, — but  not  now. 

His  heart  was  very  full  as  he  followed  the  familiar  path, 
and  thought  of  that  first  day  of  winter  so  long — it  seemed — 
ago.  He  had  promised  the  tailor  to  come  back,  triumph- 
antly he  had  promised.  Gaily  he  had  said  that  he  was  set- 
ting forth  into  the  world  to  know,  and  that  he  would  return 
to  tell  of  his  knowledge.  Well,  here  he  was  returning.  As 
he  wound  among  the  great  trees,  crushing  the  twigs  beneath 
his  feet,  brushing  aside  the  hardy,  obstinate  ferns,  he  was 
oppressed  for  a  moment  by  a  rising  bitterness.  Now  that 
he  was  once  more  here,  where  he  had  formed  such  mighty 
hopes,  egoism  rose  up  in  him.     Self-pity  woke  in  his  heart. 


FELIX  .  431 

'Why  was  I  born  to  suffer  and  to  fail,  to  be  tricked  and  de- 
luded where  I  put  my  trust,  to  be  impotent  and  to  be  shown 
my  impotence?'  he  thought.  And  he  heard  again  Mr. 
Ismey's  last,  stern  words,  and  he  saw  his  youth  for  a  moment 
tarnished  irreparably,  iDeyond  recovery.  Its  beauty  was 
marred.  He  imagined  it  a  perfect  statue  which  had  been 
thrown  down  from  its  pedestal  and  broken.  Yet  was  it  ever 
perfect  ?  Is  perfection  a  gift  of  God  to  the  newly  born,  or 
is  it  a  thing  to  be  won,  hardly,at  the  end  of  a  lifetime,  or  of 
many  lifetimes  ?  And  even  then,  when  it  is  won,  is  it  not 
still  a  gift,  like  the  little  cross  the  king  pins  on  the  soldier's 
breast. 

He  wondered,  how  he  wondered  ! 

But  the  path  widened.  The  spaces  between  the  trees 
grew  greater.  He  saw  the  clearing,  the  cottage.  A  shrill 
bark  rose  up  in  the  quiet  air.  It  was  the  welcome  of  the 
little  Honore,  who  ran  forward  curling  his  tail  tightly,  and 
treading  on  the  tiptoes  of  his  yellow  paws.  The  cottage 
door  quickly  opened  and  on  the  threshold  appeared  the  bent 
figure  of  the  tailor,  holding  his  shears  in  his  large-veined 
hands,  and  peering  out  under  his  tufted  eyebrows.  A 
strange,  boyish  happiness  burst  up  suddenly  in  Felix's  heart. 
He  hurried  on,  came  up  to  the  old  man,  seized  his  hands. 

The  shears  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  clatter.  Felix  felt 
the  fierce  tuft  of  the  tailor's  bristling  imperial  upon  his  two 
cheeks.  Once  again  the  pointed  nose  of  the  little  Honor^ 
explored  asthmatically  the  mysteries  of  his  boots.  He 
laughed  aloud  and  broke  into  a  torrent  of  speech. 

But  later,  when  he  entered  the  cottage,  he  grew  grave. 

*  Ah,  Louis,'  he  said,  '  I  see  you  have  kept  the  books.' 

'  But  naturally,  monsieur  ! '  cried  the  tailor,  who  was  rum- 
maging in  a  corner  of  the  chamber  with  his  back  turned  to 
Felix.  'They  are  my  only  companions,  but  for  the  little 
Honord  and  the  little  Marthe.  How  should  I  not  keep 
them  ? ' 

'  You  don't  think  they  are  dangerous,  Louis  ?  That  books 
may  be  enemies  rather  than  friends?  Did  you  not  tell  me 
that  those  books  drove  you  to  Paris,  and  that  in  Paris  you 
starved  ? ' 

And  he  thought  of  his  own  starvation. 

'Monsieur,'  said  the  tailor  warmly,  'would  yon  have  a 
man,  when  he  writes,  think  all  the  time  of  the  little  men  who 
may  read  him  ?  Would  you  have  had  Monsic-ur  de  P.al7.ac 
cease  from  writing,  lest  the  little  dwarf  who  measured  Inm 


432  FELIX 

for  trousers  without  feet  should  be  moved  to  set  forth  and 
starve  in  Paris  ?     Oh,  la,  la  /' 

He  turned  round  and  came  up  to  the  table,  holding  a  flat 
bottle  in  his  large  hands. 

'  No,  monsieur,  no  !  If  the  little  are  turned  to  folly  by 
the  writings  of  the  great,  believe  me  it  is  the  fault  of  the 
little.  And  now  a  glass  of  wine,  monsieur.  A  glass  of  the 
wine  of  Vouvray  to  drink  to  your  return  ! ' 

He  uncorked  the  bottle,  poured  the  wine  into  two  glasses, 
gave  one  to  Felix  and  took  the  other  himself.  Felix  felt  the 
irony  of  the  situation. 

'  To  the  health  and  happiness  of  monsieur  ! '  said  the  tailor. 

He  was  about  to  lift  his  glass  to  his  lips,  but  suddenly 
an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him,  for  he  put  it  down,  paused  and 
looked  at  Felix  with  his  old,  but  still  keen  eyes. 

'  Monsieur  said  that  he  would  come  back  and  tell  me — ah, 
many  things  of  the  great  world.     Is  it  not  so?' 

'  Yes,  Louis.' 

*  And  I  replied,  "  No,  but  monsieur  must  come  back  and 
tell  me  he  is  happy."     Well,  monsieur?' 

'Well,  Louis  ?' 

*  Before  I  drink  will  not  monsieur  tell  me  ? ' 

He  stood  with  his  leg  slightly  bent,  waiting  by  the  table. 

Felix  hesitated.  In  that  moment  of  hesitation  many  mem- 
ories coursed  through  his  mind. — He  wandered  upon  the 
beach  at  Eldon  Sands  in  the  dark,  fearing  to  go  back  to  the 
hotel.  He  heard  the  scream  of  a  woman  as  he  pressed  on- 
wards through  a  staring  crowd,  a  crowd  staring  at  her  degra- 
dation. He  saw  a  haggard  face  looking  out  of  the  window 
of  a  house  that  was  a  prison. 

Could  he  ever  be  happy  till  he  knew  that  she  was  saved, 
cured  of  the  vice  that  laid  waste  her  life,  Mr.  Ismey's  life, 
that  had  so  cruelly  dealt  with  his  own,  tearing  from  him  the 
sacred  trust  of  youth  ? 

He  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  to  tell  the  tailor  that  he  could 
not  give  him  the  required  signal  for  the  toast.  But  suddenly 
there  came  into  his  mind  a  saying,  He  did  not  know  where 
he  had  heard  it,  or  where  it  came  from.    This  was  the  saying: 

'  Happy  is  the  man  who  has  a  good  mother.^ 

He  hesitated  no  longer. 

'I  am  happy,  Louis,'  he  said. 

The  tailor  raised  his  glass. 

'  To  the  health  of  monsieur  ! '  he  cried.  *  To  the  health  of 
Monsieur  F^lix  ! ' 


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